


Some People Watch Golf on TV (and Neither of Those Things Make Sense to Me)

by crankyrage



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Golf, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:21:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 40,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24935971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crankyrage/pseuds/crankyrage
Summary: His relationship with golf is probably one of the most complicated in his life. He loves it. Breathes it. Lives it. Gives everything to it, and the only thing he gets in return sometimes is rejection and this pain to carry around to remind himself that he’s a failure – that he’ll never be what they say he could be. And yet, no matter how much golf rejects him, makes him hate himself, makes him hate the world, hell golf even took his best friend from him, he always comes back. It’s almost like an addiction.So, Connor loves golf. Would die without it, probably. But, at the same time, sometimes not only is it not rewarding, it isn’t fun in the slightest.(Or a PGA Tour AU that no one, truly no one, asked for)
Relationships: Jack Eichel/Connor McDavid
Comments: 22
Kudos: 111





	Some People Watch Golf on TV (and Neither of Those Things Make Sense to Me)

**Author's Note:**

> So the PGA tour's back, and so I got emo and wrote a 40k word golf fic. I've been sitting on this for a while, and I've hesitated posting it because I think there are many other important places to put our energy online given what's happening with police brutality, the Black Lives Matter movement, etc. I have a pretty specific view on the downfalls and drawbacks of our criminal justice system, and if you read my last fic, you probably know that. And, I've felt like I needed to post something that stood for something. But, this -- isn't it. This is just a fun piece about golf and about a relationship. Obviously, there are more important things to be reading at this time, but that doesn't mean that people don't need time away from those things to just chill and veg and have fun. So, that's why I'm posting it now. Please take time to educate yourself and amplify BIPOC voices! We all need to be accountable, whether you're in the US or abroad this is not just a U.S. problem, this is a global issue as well.
> 
> Quick warning for mentions of PTSD, mental health issues, and mentions of suicide and depression. If you find any of these things triggering this may not be the fic for you.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!
> 
> Title taken from "Golf on TV" by Lennon Stella and JP Saxe (highly recommend; it's a jam)
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing and mean no harm by using any real-life person or their likeness; this is simply a work of fiction for entertainment value.

“Kick left, kick—” Connor mutters mostly to himself knowing that the camera probably picked it up anyway and watches as his ball gets a bad bounce and rolls off the back of the green.

“Welp,” Dylan, his caddie, comments popping Connor’s 6 iron into his bag as they make their way down the fairway. “Not the greatest of breaks there, bud.”

“Helpful,” Connor retorts rolling his eyes. “Where’d Crosby go?”

Connor’s mostly been trying not to pay too much attention to Crosby’s game. Stay in his lane. That’s what he and his swing coach had talked about on the range this morning, at least. But it was easier said than done.

Connor grew up with a Sidney Crosby poster above his bed. It was a shot from right here at Augusta, when Sid won his first ever major at the 2005 Masters at just 18. Connor was only 8 at the time, but he remembers watching it on TV with his dad like it was yesterday. He remembers the long curl of Crosby’s hair under his cap, the sweat of his brow as he lined up his final clinching putt, and the glistening of Crosby’s now infamous Sunday black-and-gold in the Georgia sun as he hugged his longtime coach and mentor, Mario Lemieux. Legend has it that it was the first time that Sid had ever smiled on television.

It’s totally surreal that it’s Sunday at Augusta, and here Connor is playing in the final pairing against his childhood hero. To say that he’s dreamt about this would be an understatement.

“Right side of the green, pin high,” Dylan says as they come into view to the gallery sitting at the 13th green and are greeted with a raucous round of applause. Connor doesn’t know if he’ll ever really get used to the gallery and the fans and screams of “get in the hole” on every tee shot, even the Par 5s. It wasn’t that long ago that he and Dylan were still playing NCAA golf at Wake Forest to crowds of only wayward parents and aunts and uncles.

“Fuck, of course he has a look for Eagle,” Connor says lowly for only Dylan to hear. “He’s Sidney Crosby.”

Dylan shrugs as they approach Connor’s ball off the green but chooses not to respond. “What do you want to play here?”

Connor sighs. 13’s not a hole you want to miss the green long with the four bunkers that run along the back. At least he didn’t hit it fat and short and dump it in the hazard, he supposes. Small miracles. He gets into the bunker as Dylan watches. “Looks like a decent lie. I think the play is to flop it soft and hope it doesn’t run.”

“Yeah, take your 60 and try to finesse it,” Dylan agrees easily. “But if you get the ball too far down the slope, it’s going to take off.”

Connor nods, he’d done that during one of his practice rounds and boogied the hole. He can’t afford that today, not when he’s already two back of the lead.

“Breathe Davo,” Dylan says patting his shoulder as he hands him his wedge. “It’s just a golf shot.”

Connor nods smiling tightly knowing that his grimace is being talked about on international television.

Connor takes a few practice swings out of the bunker and tries not to think about the camera that’s tried to station himself out of Connor’s line of sight. It doesn’t work, not really.

He takes a deep breath when he lines up digging into the sand like he’s done probably a million times before. He thinks of his mental cues, clears his mind, engages his core, and— _crack._ He pured it. Holy shit, he flopped it straight up. He bounds out of the bunker and watches the ball hit the flag stick, ricochet off and roll off the front of the green right into the hazard.

There’s an audible gasp from the crowd, and when he looks over to Crosby and Mario, who’s been caddying for him during the latter half of his career, they’re shaking their heads and grimacing.

“That’s some grade A bullshit,” Dylan comments as he finishes raking and follows Connor over to the hazard where the Rules Official is standing.

Connor just nods because he doesn’t trust himself to open his mouth and not scream.

“It wasn’t a bad shot by any means,” Dylan continues because he’s always hated silence on the course. When they were freshmen, some of the guys wouldn’t even play practice rounds with him because he wouldn’t shut the hell up. Connor’s never minded, and it’s gotten better over the years, but damn he just wants to stew in peace.

It wasn’t a bad shot. His line was perfect he just hit it too hard, had too much momentum, but he just didn’t want it to hit the lip and roll back down. His dad would tell him it was a mental error. Tell him to concentrate. Think everything through. He tries to put it behind him. It was only one shot. There was still a lot of golf left to be played. He knew what he needed to do: save boogey and get on to the next hole.

Hole 13 at Augusta didn’t have much meaning to him at the start of the day. But it’s the place where all the commentators point to and say “that’s where the wheels started to fall off.” Hole 13 is where everything in his game, and frankly his life, started spiraling out of control.

He puts on a brave face and hugs Sid as he holes his final put at 18 to seal the deal, even though it’s really just a formality at this point. The leader in the clubhouse was 5 shots off the lead. It’s a picture that’s on the front of every sports section and golf magazine the next morning: Sid squeezing him tight, clapping him on the back, and saying into his ear, “You’re the next one, kiddo.”

Connor can’t even look at the photo without his eyes burning.

He sits in the locker room in the clubhouse after he dutifully stood with the rest of the field to watch Sid get his 5th green jacket. He smiled and clapped when appropriate like everyone else. But when he finally gets behind closed doors he lets out a scream that he didn’t even know he had in him and collapses in the chair in front of his locker sticking his head between his legs trying not to cry.

He had it. He had it right there in front of him, and he didn’t just choke – he played some of the worst golf of his career. He got a 13 on a hole. At the Masters. In the final pairing. Fuck.

He’s embarrassed. He’s humiliated. Frankly, he’s ashamed. Everyone has bad days, sure. But he didn’t even put up a fight. He just imploded. He didn’t just lose. He didn’t just lose big. He beat himself. Fuck.

“Oh shit,” he looks up to see Noah Hanifin looking at him sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “I hadn’t realized you were in here, Davo, or I would have—”

Connor looks up and meets his eyes waving him off. Hanny’s a good guy. They played each other all the time over their four years of NCAA golf. At tournaments, he was one of the better guys to be paired with. Competitive as fuck, sure. They all are. But, a solid calming presence, always laughing and having a good time. He was the kind of guy who reminded Connor that golf was supposed to be fun. Since they both started on Tour, they signed with the same agent and play Taylormade, so they see a lot of each other and play a lot of practice rounds together, even if they still chirp each other about their college rivalry.

“I’m heading out. You’re playing in SC next weekend?”

Connor takes a measured breath before he trusts himself to open his mouth. “Yep, I’ll be there.”

“Cool, I’m playing a rehab round with Jack on Tuesday, but if you want to shoot the shit on Wednesday, I’ll tell Bobby to set it up.”

“Thanks, Hanny. I’ll let you know.”

Noah packs up his locker with practiced efficiency but turns back to Connor before he leaves placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It’s just golf, Davo.”

Connor shakes his head and waves a little as Noah leaves. He wishes he believed that.

_The Downfall of the Next, Next One: Connor McDavid’s career over before it began?_

“What the fuck are you reading that for?” Dylan says snatching the paper from his hands almost knocking over Brinksy’s coffee in the process.

“C’mon Alex, you’re letting him read this?” Dylan sighs gearing up to read him the riot act, Connor’s sure.

Alex, anticipating Dylan’s shtick interrupts him, “Stromer, dude, what do you want me to do not let Connor read any news for the rest of eternity?”

Dylan deflates slightly sitting down aggressively to eat his breakfast. “Well, at least until the end of the season,” he grumbles into his eggs.

“What’s the point? I know I suck, Dylan. I missed the cut last week at the PGA. My practice round yesterday was abysmal. They’re right, at this rate I’m not going to be a has-been at 25, I’m going to be a never-was.”

Alex makes an audible noise of dissatisfaction but doesn’t actually say anything. Dylan, however, when Connor finally looks up to meet his eyes, has his mouth hung open.

“If I didn’t have sponsor obligations, I probably would have packed it in for the season already. It just gets harder each round, each week.”

Dylan doesn’t start yelling or lecturing like Connor anticipated. He just snaps his jaw shut and abruptly gets up from the table. “I’ll meet you out at the range.”

“Well—” Connor starts but Alex just shakes his head.

“As much as I love you both, Davo, you and Dylan need to work out your own shit.” And with that Alex also gets up to find his own caddie and start his Thursday routine.

Connor plays marginally better in his opening round finishing -3 for the day. Colonial Country Club is a pretty low scoring course, and Connor knows if he wants to make sure he doesn’t miss two cuts in a row, he needs to make more birdies tomorrow.

Dylan was quiet during the round, stilted in a way that he’s never been around Connor before. Connor knows he needs to talk to him, for the sake of not only their professional relationship, but their personal one as well. Connor knows not everyone gets to have their best friend on their bag, and he’s always been happy to have Dylan along for the ride. It means a lot to him. But he doesn’t really understand what to say. He’s not going to apologize for being realistic about his own play and his season.

He still can’t make sense of what happened out there at Augusta, and if he thinks about it too hard, he might actually tear his hair out. But at the end of the day, he’s been playing some truly terrible golf. His world ranking is plummeting. His sponsors are getting anxious, and not even Bobby has anything positive to say about his future prospects. For all intents and purposes, Connor’s life has spiraled out of control. Connor’s not going to pretend like it’s not happening so Dylan doesn’t have to face reality.

When Dylan answers his hotel room door, he’s in an old pair of Wake Forest sweats that have seen better days. They’re a little short for him, and Connor wonders idly if they belonged to him at one time.

“Hey,” Dylan says simply letting him in.

“Hey,” Connor echoes sitting at the desk facing Dylan’s bed. “Look—"

“I don’t know if I want to do this anymore—” Dylan blurts not looking at Connor beginning to pace in front of him.

Connor takes a deep breath, “What?”

“I’m not going to stand by and watch you do this to yourself, Davo. I care about you too much,” Dylan says shrugging a single shoulder still refusing to meet Connor’s eyes.

“That’s bullshit—” Connor spits back, and he doesn’t know what makes him say it. Maybe it’s because everything in his life is falling apart, and he never, ever in a million years thought Dylan would kick him when he was already down.

“Connor, look – I love you, man. I’d do anything for you. Anything. But it’s been really hard to be around you lately. It’s really hard to be on your bag. It’s just—"

Connor takes a breath trying to make sense of this conversation. Dylan had been his best friend from probably the minute they stepped on campus the summer before freshman year. They were inseparable, the local press claiming them as the duo to watch, the two Canadians ready to steal NCAA titles.

They balanced each other out. Connor was exact, methodical. He excelled in course management and approaching each shot with a careful, measured exactitude that made him the youngest winner of Junior Canadian Open ever. Dylan, on the other hand, was aggressive and emotional on the course. He played golf with a joy and exuberance of someone who was just discovering their love for the game for the first time.

They won a pair of NCAA championships back-to-back, Connor winning their final one as an individual as well. And when they graduated, Connor’s career took off. He qualified for the Tour right away and made the cut in his first 15 starts, placing in the top 10 7 times. But Dylan wasn’t so lucky. He started out on the Korn Ferry Tour, trying to get through Q School. It was rough for him. He had always been a long hitter without the best touch around the greens, but he was struggling to even keep the ball in play. And Connor could only helplessly watch from afar as Dylan missed cuts and got dropped from sponsors. It seemed like every week he called or texted Connor with more shitty news.

The week before the Open Championship, Connor’s usual Tour caddie had come down with a bug and was unable to travel, and Dylan had a break in his schedule, so it just made sense for Connor to ask him to be on his bag for the weekend. There was no one who Connor trusted more on the golf course than Dylan.

It worked amazingly well, to the surprise of most commentators and fans. Dylan got Connor to relax and broke him out of his conservative streak. He encouraged Connor to take a few more chances out there, and in the end, Connor finished top-3 for the first time in a major, ending the weekend only two shots back from the lead.

There’s no doubt in Connor’s mind that Dylan could still be playing professional golf if he wanted to. He could be playing on the Korn Ferry Tour or the European Tour, or maybe, if he would have turned it around, and Connor knows he could have, could be playing alongside Connor on the PGA Tour. But he chose to stay on Connor’s bag for the rest of that season and beyond. He chose Connor.

There are some days when Connor gets really down on himself, and he feels guilty about the whole thing. He feels like he’s holding Dylan back. But Dylan chose to stay on Connor’s bag and gave up his Tour dreams to help Connor pursue his, and they’ve been an unstoppable pair ever since. Dylan’s become one of the best caddies on Tour in such a short time, and Connor knows the other guys would love to poach him if they got the chance.

“You’re giving up on me,” Connor states simply blowing out a breath.

“Never,” Dylan fires back immediately. “But you’ve given up on yourself, and I’m not being a part of that anymore. I won’t. I didn’t—”

“You didn’t what?” Connor asks trying to stay calm, but he just doesn’t know what to do. Dylan would never—

“I didn’t come here to watch you throw everything away. I didn’t give up my life, my game, my dreams, for you to throw yourself a pity party each week, Davo.”

Connor takes a deep breath and can feel the tears well in the corners of his eyes. “So what, I’m only worth something to you when I’m winning?”

“That’s not what I meant, Connor. I just need you to act like you give a shit out there—”

“Are you fucking kidding me, Stromer?” he erupts out of the chair unable to bite back the anger and the sadness building in his chest. “Golf is my entire life. Of course I fucking care.”

Dylan shakes his head sadly and wipes slowly at his eyes. “I can’t deal with your attitude anymore. It’s such a drag, Connor. I know that there’s always going to be ups and downs, but you’re not even having fun out there anymore.”

“Well, it’s fucking hard to have fun when you’re playing like shit and the whole world’s watching, Dylan. I’m sorry I can’t fake a smile better, alright?”

“It’s not about that Connor, Jesus Christ,” Dylan replies sniffling. “It’s like – I know it’s been tough. But, I’m here for you. We’re a team; you don’t have to go through this alone, Davo. But, if you’re not going to let me in, and you’re just going to huff and puff and say you suck and drag these lousy rounds out and not see the good in anything anymore, then what’s the fucking point?”

Connor’s so angry he’s seeing stars. Dylan was supposed to be one the one person he could always count on – the one person he knew wasn’t in it for the money, using him for anything else. Connor can’t believe after everything they’ve been through, Dylan was just another person who was in it for himself, someone who sees Connor as a product, as an industry or a paycheck and not a person who’s bruised and hurting and needs his best friend.

“Fuck you, Stromer. Fuck you; I don’t need you—”

“Connor—”

“This is such bullshit. You don’t want to be associated with a loser? You don’t want to spend your weekends with a sub-50 player—”

“Connor—”

“Just go, Dylan. I don’t need you, alright? I’ve won without you, and I’ll win again. You’re the one who had a failed professional career. You’re the one who took the easy way out and gave up on your dream before you could fail. At least I was brave enough to go for it. You’re just a coward.”

Dylan takes a long shuddery breath, “I know you don’t mean that. I know you’re just hurt. I’m the last person who’s trying to hurt you, okay? I want to see you win, Connor. But, I just—it’s hard for me to watch you like this, and I love you way too much to be a part of it.”

That’s the biggest load of bullshit Connor’s ever heard. “Fuck you, Dylan. If you’re going to abandon me, at least give me the real reason. Your golden goose turned out to be a fraud, and now you just have to go hitch your wagon to someone better – ride someone else’s coattails, I’m just not enough anymore.”

“Connor, you’re not even listening to me – that’s part of the problem. You’re always going to be enough, Connor. You’re more than just golf, and golf is more than winning tournaments. It’s supposed to be fun. You’re an adult playing a game for a living, Connor. We’re both so lucky.”

Connor rolls his eyes legs shaking when he stands up. “You’re fired, Dylan. You don’t want to be here, fine. I’ll get a new caddie. You go play on the mini tour and have ‘fun’ losing every week.”

Dylan doesn’t respond but trails Connor to the door of his hotel room. “I’ll call you when you calm down, okay? This doesn’t have to change our friendship.”

Connor laughs humorlessly, “We’re not friends, Dylan. Lose my phone number, and don’t even think about trying to call me.” He punctuates his point by slamming the door in Dylan’s face.

“It hasn’t been a good couple of months to be Connor McDavid. Many thought this was the year for golf’s youngest and brightest star, but ever since his disastrous final round at this year’s Masters, McDavid seems like a different golfer. McDavid hasn’t really mentally recovered from his terrible performance playing in the final pairing with McDavid’s childhood idol, Sidney Crosby. He missed the cut at the PGA and followed it up with missing two more cuts. He barely made the cut for the U.S. Open and ended the weekend at the bottom of the leaderboard after spending another weekend playing bogey golf. He’s been averaging an abysmal 5 over per 18 holes and needs to turn it around quick, if not for the sake of his career, but his own sanity.”

“That’s true; it’s honestly becoming difficult to watch. During this period, McDavid has also parted ways with his friend, college teammate and longtime caddie Dylan Strome, whom has resumed playing on the Korn Ferry Tour. Sources tell us that the relationship broke down and did not end on the greatest of terms. Since, McDavid’s been cycling through potential caddies but no one has stuck thus far, and it’s just another thing that has to be weighing on the young star’s mind as he hits the links this weekend hoping to string together four solid rounds for the first time in several months.”

Connor finally puts himself out of his misery and shuts off Golf Channel throwing the remote against the hotel bed. He knows he needs to stop reading his press. But sometimes when you’re playing like shit and feeling like shit, you just want further confirmation that the world really thinks you’re shit. It’s like he wants others to confirm all of the worst thoughts he has swirling around in his head.

Bobby e-mailed him another list of potential caddies, and he knows he really just needs to pick someone and stick with him for the rest of the season. Giving a guy one weekend really isn’t enough for them to feel each other out and for the caddie learn Connor’s game. But he hasn’t really been vibing with any of them. Brinksy helpfully suggested that he needed to stop comparing them to Dylan, but he honestly can’t help it, even though it’s not a helpful exercise.

In the end, he doesn’t even look at the list, he just texts Bobby that he trusts him to send him whoever he thinks is best.

 _Are you sure you don’t want to look or approve him before he gets on the plane?_ Bobby sends back.

 _I’m sure._ Connor responds because Dylan’s not going to be on that list, so what’s the point of him having an opinion. No one was ever going to be Dylan.

He plays a practice round with Drat and Nursey without a caddie, which in the past may have caused him some anxiety that the new guy wouldn’t have time to learn the course or Connor, but honestly he doesn’t think it’ll really make a difference with the way he’s been playing. Leon and Darnell don’t even comment on it anymore. They do their best to pass the time by talking about really anything other than the implosion of Connor’s professional golf career, even if they have to talk about reality TV and the Kardashians for most of the back 9.

“Don’t they have socialites in Germany?” Nursey asks Leon after he complains that he doesn’t understand what exactly they’re famous for again. “They whole thing is that they’re not famous for anything other than being famous. It’s like definitional.”

“I don’t know if that’s a word,” Connor comments laughing.

Darnell shoves at him giggling as Connor almost trips and eats it down the fairway. “Fuck off, Davo.”

Connor’s glad he’s found some really great friends on Tour, or the whole thing would be even more excruciating. At least he knows he can get out of his head sometimes, even if he can’t do it when it matters during an actual round. It gives him some semblance of hope that maybe he’ll be able to turn it around.

He wakes up Thursday morning before his alarm to banging against his hotel room door. He has no idea who it could be. Most of the guys have given him a wide berth because they know how hard it can be to be slumping this ridiculously badly. They’ve let Connor come to them and haven’t been forcing him to socialize if he doesn’t want to.

When he flings open the door, Jack Eichel is standing there staring at him – which, what the fuck?

“Are you going to let me in?” He asks smirking the way Connor remembers from all of their matches and tournaments in college. But, there’s something behind his eyes now, perhaps some apprehension? Fear? Connor doesn’t know.

Jack Eichel was the No. 2 ranked recruit when they were coming out of high school. One of the most natural golfers of their generation, at least that’s what all the experts said. He had a smooth, sleek, and extremely strong stroke – the mechanics of Rory with the strength of Dustin Johnson or Bubba Watson and the trash talking skills of Tiger; the third one’s the thing that Connor mostly remembers.

Before he played a round with Jack, most of the people he had played with in tournaments growing up didn’t talk much on the course. Dylan of course, was the notable exception, but he didn’t talk trash. He just talked about the weather and whatever. Asked about guys’ families and dogs or really anything. He just hated walking in silence. And while Connor had played with other guys that chirped each other between holes, it was seldom and never biting.

Jack Eichel talked trash like they were playing in the NHL or the NBA. He had your worst stats memorized and would ask you about shitty shots you forgot you’d even taken two or three years ago. He’d ask you about junior tournaments you tanked and putts you missed. He was relentless. But despite that, almost everyone liked Jack. He talked trash, sure, but everyone knew that, and he was never outwardly hostile. He didn’t actually want to see anyone fail. He just wanted to win, and everyone, mostly, respected that. It helped that his chirps were on the right side of funny and very rarely charted into mean.

All that being said, he really hated Connor. He was frigid to Connor in a way he didn’t see him act with anyone else, even when they were underclassman and not the no. 1s on their respective college teams yet.

“Uh, Noah’s down the hall, man. I saw him wandering around this floor yesterday after his practice round,” Connor tells him pointing him to the right figuring that Jack came to see his college playing partner play. It was the only logical explanation.

Jack shakes his head, and Connor notices for the first time that he looks exhausted. There’s dark circles under his eyes, and he looks ready to drop. “I’m your new caddie, fucker. And your management didn’t tell me until late last night. I got on the first flight I could get.”

Connor doesn’t have words, but his brain starts moving without his permission. “Okay. I guess come in?”

“Thanks,” Jack says stepping past him into Connor’s room. “They won’t have a room ready for me until after today’s round. So, I’m hoping you’ll let me crash for a while doing whatever morning ritual you have.”

“Can you—” Connor starts as Jack sets his suitcase on the bed Connor hadn’t been using. “Since when do you caddie?”

Jack shrugs sitting on the bed and stretching a little. Connor winces. Planes aren’t great for anyone over 6 foot. “Look, man. I know we have a history or whatever, but I fucking need the money, Davo. And, all the guys on Tour have been saying you’ve been burning through the career caddies like nothing. None of the guys even lasted more than one tournament since you and Stromer had your lovers’ quarrel, and he abandoned you for mediocrity on the Korn Ferry tour.”

“We didn’t have a lovers’—”

Jack raises a hand cutting him off, “Spare me the details, okay? But, look, we’ve played with each other a lot, and Noah knew I needed the money, so he floated my name to Bobby, and here I am. Ready to serve you.”

Connor swallows and looks away. “But your knee, can you even—”

“I can carry a fucking set of clubs and walk, fucker. Let me worry about me, and you just concentrate on that sorry thing you call a golf game.”

“Fine,” Connor says giving in, not like he has another choice.

He’s paired with Bergeron and Benn, two of the more benign guys on Tour. Both of them look a little surprised to see Jack accompany him to the first tee box, but neither of them nor their caddies choose to comment on it. He’s sure that the commentators, if they even bother to feature him on the broadcast, will make sure they analyze it to the death.

_Connor McDavid: So Desperate to Not Suck, He Turns to College Rival as Caddie._

Jack’s wearing a pair of Ray Bans and his hat backwards snug over his curls.

“Please at least turn the hat around before the cameras come, okay? This is the PGA Tour not a frat party.”

Jack rolls his eyes like he knows Connor’s off-season wardrobe contains an alarming number of backwards snapbacks, but he flips his cap around anyway. “Happy?”

“Not since the 12th Hole at Augusta,” Connor replies coolly.

That startles a laugh out of Jack, “Dark.”

Jack knows his game alarmingly well. He knows Connor’s club distance without having to look it up. He knows what clubs he makes the best contact with. He knows where and how he tends to miss, and he can even tell how his swing is breaking down before Connor can feel it on the next tee box. Connor’s impressed. Impressed that he’s taking it seriously, for one. But also that they’re gelling pretty well.

Connor’s still hitting some terrible shots. He three-whacks four separate holes, which he’s sure will be a topic of discussion among the commentators. But, if he’s being honest, he’s more relaxed on the course than he’s been in a long time.

Connor always thought Jack was funny, but he was too busy being annoyed and demonizing his trash-talk during college to lean into it. There were a few guys on his Wake Forest team who enjoyed being paired with Jack because the trash-talking and the jokes took the focus off of their game and helped them sink into their round. Connor always thought they were crazy. He’d want to play with a quiet, nice guy any day over the loudmouth red head. But maybe he gets it now, at least a little bit.

Jack loves to chirp the gallery, which he’s never really heard anyone do before. “Look at the size of that ring on that woman! What do you think the partner did? Cheat? Knock-up another woman?”

“Maybe they’re just rich?” Connor responds shrugging. “Golf fans, remember?”

Jack laughs tipping his head back. “You’re honestly no fun.”

Connor still isn’t playing well. No one could accuse him of that, and he certainly will likely be out of the hunt on Sunday, but when he holes his putt on the 18th green and tips his hat to the crowd, instead of thinking about the bad press and questions he’s going to get after the round, he’s just thinking about having another okay-ish round tomorrow and maybe making the cut and playing all the way through the weekend with Jack making fun of everyone from the gallery to the rules officials to Benn’s terrible mustache. It wasn’t a bad way to spend the afternoon, really.

He doesn’t make the cut after hitting into two hazards a having two doubles on Friday afternoon. He’s frustrated, of course. But maybe he’s just resigned to the fact he now is a less-than-mediocre Tour player, or what, but he’s kind of numb to the failure. He almost expects it now.

“Sorry, dude,” Jack tells him when he stops by Connor’s hotel room after having dinner with some of the guys he probably hasn’t seen in a while. “It sucks to be slumping like this.”

“Yeah,” Connor shrugs stepping back to let Jack in.

“So, I guess I’ll see you around and shit? I’ll pray for the next poor soul who you get on the bag.”

Connor laughs at that rolling his eyes. “You want to maybe stick with me for another week? I mean it sucks to lose and I mean no bonus, but you said you needed the money.”

“I mean yeah,” Jack shrugs looking at the ground. “But I’m not asking you for charity, man—”

“No, I mean, look, you’re not Dylan. No one’s Dylan, except you know Stromer, but like, fuck—” God, Connor has a way with words. “I thought it went pretty well compared to a lot of the other guys, and Bobby really wants me to just choose someone especially with The Open coming up, so—”

“I mean I obviously can’t replace your best friend,” Jack says softly eyes still trained down. “But, you gotta know you’re a talent, Davo. So, if I can help your comeback in any way, I’d be happy to, even it’s just getting you to not take yourself so seriously out there. Gotta lose with grace.”

“Well you’ve had a lot more practice at losing than me, so I guess if anyone can teach me how to lose—”

Jack laughs looking up at Connor. “Let’s do this, Davo. You and me,” he holds his fist out to bump. “Wow, that’s not something I’d ever imagined saying.”

Connor rolls his eyes but bumps his fist softly. “It’s bound to be an interesting ride.”

Jack’s hitting balls on the range when Connor shows up to work with his swing coach, Randy and play a practice round by himself the next Tuesday.

His knee’s enclosed in a very complicated looking brace, but his swing doesn’t look bad, per se, just much different than the easiness Connor remembers from college.

“What’s up?” Connor asks setting his bag down and starting to loosen up for his own session.

Jack shrugs. “Just thought I’d get some work in before having to watch you shank a bunch of balls for the next several hours.”

Connor rolls his eyes but has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from smiling. There’s something about Jack’s chirping that makes him feel like it’s okay to suck sometimes – like it’s okay to lean into the fact that he’s playing the worst golf of his professional career by a longshot. Everyone knows it, and the world keeps turning, and Connor hasn’t died yet. I mean every time he sees an interview of Crosby looking sad when they ask about Connor’s slump saying that Connor’s a “good kid” and he’ll be fine, he kind of wants to die, but he hasn’t yet.

He and Randy get to work, and even though Connor feels like every week they’re still trying to pinpoint what’s going wrong, they haven’t really come to a consensus yet.

“We have six weeks left in the season. I don’t want to breakdown everything, because it’ll take a while for everything to start clicking, Connor.” He tells him after Connor suggests they try to breakdown his swing completely.

“Well it’s not like anything’s clicking now,” Connor bites back sounding just like the petulant child he feels like he’s become this season.

Randy sighs, “Kiddo, you’ve had some rough outings, but I promise your swing doesn’t look bad or anything.”

Connor refuses to accept that because he knows how to fix his swing. He knows how to rework everything about his mechanics by hitting hours and hours of balls on the range. Doing drill after drill until it’s perfect. Watching hours of slow-mo tape to pinpoint the mistakes and bad tendencies. He doesn’t know how to fix something that’s not physical.

He’s not stupid, okay. He may have majored in golf at Wake Forest, but he still graduated with a degree. It was only a slight joke. But he knows what people have been saying. They think he’s lost it. He’s a headcase, looney toon. He couldn’t take the pressure, and it broke him. He refuses to let that be true.

Jack watches the session carefully jotting down notes in a logbook.

“What are you even writing down?” Connor asks him as they move to the first tee. He doesn’t know if he’s going to play every hole today or just some of the one’s he knows are going to give him trouble and then play a full round tomorrow with some of the guys.

Jack shrugs, “Just gathering data. Like how often you’re pulling it versus when you push a little. How your misses are landing and stuff. Maybe we can figure out a pattern and then break the cycle.”

Connor doesn’t think it’s likely, but eh. “I guess it couldn’t make me any worse.”

Jack laughs, “You got that right, Davo.”

He makes the cut that weekend, thank fucking god. He hits some key putts and only bogeys three holes all weekend. He’s still missing fairways and hitting into hazards, so he’s not exactly storming to history going into The Open Championship Weekend, but for the first time in a while, Connor feels like he may not actually embarrass himself on the major stage.

Even though he hates to admit it, and he probably wouldn’t say it out loud even though Brinksy was giving him the eye in the locker room after Sunday’s round like he knew, having Jack on the bag has been going pretty well.

He knew Jack was a good golfer, great a lot of people would say, at least at one time. To get where they are, to be a Tour pro, you have to have a high golf IQ. The guys who grip-it-and-rip-it just don’t make it out on the PGA. But Connor’s genuinely surprised at how much Jack seems to analyze everything down to the minute details that sometimes, even Connor misses.

Jack had just shrugged in the way he does looking uncomfortable from the scrutiny, “That’s why you have me around, I guess. Caddies have purposes, who knew?”

It bothers Connor because they’ve played a ton of golf together over the years. Their careers for the most part had been pretty parallel. Started off as the number 4-5 guy on their college team as freshmen, then no. 2-3, and then two years at no. 1. So, they played together at dual matches every year and at a bunch of tournaments. Then, as pros they seemed to be paired together a lot as well. Connor’s probably played 50 rounds with Jack over the years, in competition and out. But he’d never seen the serious, analytical side to Jack that he sees with Jack on the bag. He has no idea why Jack would try to hide it. It’s more impressive than anything else he’s shown Connor over the years, besides his overall high level of play.

Connor always envied Jack’s ability to come from behind, put bad shots behind him and simply compete. That was what all the profiles of him said when they were coming into college: not the most consistent ball striker, but a great scrambler. Jack was great at taking whatever bad shots and turning them into scoring opportunities. His style of play, with that abandonment, Connor was jealous of. Connor needed to play with consistency. He needed to play with predictability. When he was playing his game, there was no one better – no one was better at getting up early and keep pressing like Connor was. But, Jack – he was all about those final chip-ins to go up 1 at the final green, he was about hitting his driver off the deck going to for the green at a long par 5. Jack was about making his own scoring opportunities, and Connor was about taking advantage of the course and what was given to him.

“Remember our first Open our first year on Tour?” Connor asks Jack when they’re playing a practice round alone on Tuesday. He’s hitting a few shots from different locations out of the long rough on 15.

Jack rolls his eyes, “You mean that time I almost shit myself and took out some old man in the gallery? Hit the hat right off his head.”

“That was so epic. I still remember hearing you yell ‘FORE’ from the next tee box. Hallsy and I were dying. We had to wait a full commercial break to get everyone around us to calm down enough to hit.”

Jack laughs, “Not one of my finer moments. You know Noah has a framed picture of me and that guy in his house in Jupiter, the bastard.”

“That’s hilarious,” Connor laughs. “You live down there too, right?”

Jack nods setting the bag down grabbing Connor’s rescue club for him to try over an iron. “Yeah, we used to literally live on the same street. His girlfriend loved that,” he laughs slightly. “Everyone would say how you and Stromer were co-dependent shits, but I feel like me and Noah were just as bad, just less Canadian about it.”

Connor raises an eyebrow, “You moved?”

Jack shrugs flipping down his sunglasses and stepping back so Connor can line-up his shot. “Yeah, just needed a smaller place. Try to keep the ball down a little so those trees don’t come into play. I’d give it like a 70% swing or you’ll fly the green.”

The weekend is – challenging, to say the least. As much as he’s used to the cameras when he’s in the hunt for the title, he’s not used to them because he’s a public interest story. Everyone’s waiting for the inevitable nervous breakdown, and Connor refuses to give them the satisfaction. He’s not doing the yell and scream at his ball thing; he refuses.

“Hey,” Jack says putting a light hand on Connor’s arm as they’re making the turn to 10 on Friday afternoon. Connor has had worse rounds over the last few months, but he’s probably going to miss the cut again, and he kind of just wants to get it over with.

Connor just blinks at him as he drags Connor out of sight of the gallery and cameras stopping behind a few trees.

“Hey,” Jack repeats flipping up his sunglasses and smiling at Connor. “Look, all of this is bullshit, okay? The media, the other Tour pros, the fans wanting to see the fall, or whatever; it’s dumb as fuck.”

Connor blows out a breath because he has no idea how to respond to that.

“No one’s expecting you to do shit. You have nothing to lose, Connor. Absolutely nothing. When’s the last time you played a tournament with no pressure?”

Connor shrugs it was probably during junior golf before he became a local Thing, with a capital T.

“I know they’ve been comparing you to Sid, calling you McJesus since you were like 12, but all of that? It doesn’t matter anymore. You’ve lowered all those expectations; they no longer exist.”

Connor raises an eyebrow looking down. “Is this supposed to be a pep talk? Because you’re kind of making me feel worse.”

Jack sighs looking at Connor like he’s an insufferable idiot. It’s a familiar expression at least. That’s how Jack looked at him all through college. “Don’t you see the beauty in this, Connor? You could go out and go 9 over on the back nine and no one would give a shit. There’s no pressure on you to be anything. So, you’re free to just go out there and play some golf. We’re at The Open, Davo. We’re on the world stage. Let’s go out there and take some chances and have some fucking fun. We’re just going to shoot the shit and chirp the guys and chill for the next few hours. Let’s not even think about the number, okay? Let’s just play golf.”

“Fuck it,” Connor says throwing his hands up. “Let’s go be a distraction.”

Jack laughs shouldering Connor’s bag. “I don’t give a shit McJesus is my favorite McJesus.”

“I hate you so much,” Connor laughs.

Look, Connor loves golf. He’s loved it since before he can remember being into anything else. He loves to rush of hitting that perfect drive and striping the fairway or bending a tree to hit a green in regulation. He loves the highs and even some of the lows, only that’s been challenged as of late. He loves the challenge of a difficult course, the creativity that you need to get up and down to save par, and he loves winning. He loves the feeling of the crowd on its feet, hearing the ball hit the bottom of the cup on the 18th green knowing that you did it and everyone’s cheering for you.

He loves it, and it’s rewarding. It’s his life. People like him – people who pursue excellence – people who want to be the best at something often times don’t have a lot of balance in their lives. You can’t be the best without making sacrifices to get to the top. And, he’s done all of it willingly because golf is everything to him. So, the thing is, he loves it, and it’s not only his livelihood and his passion, it’s his life. But, if he’s being honest with himself, it isn’t always and hasn’t always been fun.

The hard days on the range, hitting ball after ball trying to get it to draw back but you just can’t get the right touch. Those days when every shot feels like a miss and none of the bounces are going your way, and you just can’t fix it. You feel like you’re a casualty to your own game.

His relationship with golf is probably one of the most complicated in his life. He loves it. Breathes it. Lives it. Gives everything to it, and the only thing he gets in return sometimes is rejection and this pain to carry around to remind himself that he’s a failure – that he’ll never be what they say he could be. And yet, no matter how much golf rejects him, makes him hate himself, makes him hate the world, hell golf even took his best friend from him, he always comes back. It’s almost like an addiction.

So, Connor loves golf. Would die without it, probably. But, at the same time, sometimes not only is it not rewarding, it isn’t fun in the slightest.

The back 9 on Friday at The Open, though, is fun, plain and simple.

Jack starts actively heckling him on the tenth tee box, which makes Toews, who’s been dialed in the entire round looking to make a comeback himself after a few down years, cracks a smile for the first time.

“Boo!” Jack says as Connor takes a few practice swings before teeing off. “You suck, McDavid! Wake Forest blows!”

Connor laughs and turns back to him, “Shut up, Eichs. No one wants to hear you.”

He doesn’t stop though. He trash-talks Connor the entire round. Recalling his most embarrassing college golf moments, including his infamous four-putt on the 16th green at NCAA regionals when they were sophomores.

It’s dumb, but Connor kind of forgets that he’s playing a major during the worst year of his professional career and feels like he’s transported in time to when he and Jack were 18, green, and playing in tournaments where their scores probably wouldn’t even be counted for their teams’ totals.

“I’ll give you 10 bucks to hit a driver here and drive the green,” Jack says when they’re approaching a short par 4 that Connor’s always hit an iron on.

“Keep your money,” Connor says rolling his eyes because Jack knows they’re not supposed to be betting on real rounds. “What the hell? What’s the worst that could happen?”

“That’s the spirit!” Jack says taking Ollie the Otter off of Connor’s driver and handing him the club. “What’s Stromer’s otter’s name, anyway?” he asks playing with the sock part of the headcover.

Connor laughs rolling his eyes. Jack’s chirped them about the matching headcovers for years, but hey, he’s not superstitious, but both of them made the cut of the U.S. Open in college as amateurs right after they got them. So, if it works, it works. “Otto, duh.”

Jack shakes his head but he’s smiling. “Ya’ll are so fucking lame.”

Connor shrugs. Jack wishes he and Noah were as iconic.

He pures his driver with a tidy little draw back.

“Good fucking ball, Davo,” Jack says as they watch it land on the green with about a 10-footer for Eagle.

Connor just laughs shoving at him, “I was bound to hit a good shot eventually. Broken clock and all that.”

“Don’t say that too loud or that’s going to be your new nickname. Connor “Broken Clock” McDavid. Not a good look, Davo.”

If you would have asked him at this time last year if he had a good round, he would have unequivocally said no. Absolutely not. One minute he’s driving the green and making an Eagle putt, the next minute he’s in the long stuff out at 15 taking three shots just to get back to safety. He’s all over the map. Normally, he’d be beyond frustrated because he can see glimpses of the player he knows he can be. Every two or three shots he’ll hit one that’s well executed, solid, and perfectly placed. And the other times? He’s zigging and zagging across the fairway exploring all of the bunkers on the course.

But all-in-all? The round’s not bad. He’s laughing at himself, at Jack’s bad jokes, at the bets Jack keeps trying to make even though he knows Connor won’t take them. He’s not playing well, but he ends the day at a respectable, -1 over the first two days, safely above the cut line which will be around +1 or +2. He’s not going to win anything anytime soon. His first major win isn’t going to happen this weekend, but he didn’t just give it away. At least, it didn’t feel like he gave up like all the preceding weeks.

Jack fist bumps him and then surprises them both by pulling Connor into a hug as they make their way to the clubhouse. “I mean you still suck, but at least it was more entertaining than sad today.”

Connor smiles and nods because he did have fun. He had a lot of fun.

He’s paired with Noah on Saturday morning, which Jack’s pumped up about.

“Hanny! Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Slumming it with McDavid here,” Jack chirps when they get out to the range to warmup before the round.

“Eichs, man. I got you this job, and I’ll get Bobby and Connor to fire the shit out of you if you don’t cool your jets.”

“You wouldn’t,” Jack replies hotly pulling Noah into a fierce hug.

“Good to see you out here, man,” Noah says a little wistfully hugging him back just as tight.

They’re both starting the day at -1, but Noah’s overall had a much smoother two rounds with a few notable bad holes. However, he’s been playing a lot more consistent golf this season than Connor has and even has two Tour wins under his belt for the first time in his career. He’s definitely on the rise, and he knows Jack’s so proud of him he’s almost bursting with it.

“Let’s do this, Davo,” Noah says holding out his fist as they stand by the first tee waiting to be introduced.

Connor smiles at him and returns the first bump. “It’s just golf,” he says echoing what Noah told him at Augusta.

Noah smiles at him ruefully. “It’s just golf,” he affirms.

“On the tee from the United States of America, Noah Hanifin!”

“Get it, Hanny!” Jack shouts as Noah steps up to tee off.

Connor rolls his eyes, “Remember who you work for here, Jack.”

Jack rolls his eyes back clapping Connor on the back as Noah stripes a beauty down the middle of the fairway. “How could I forget, your highness, McJesus.”

“Fuck off—” Connor starts but is interrupted.

“On the tee from Canada, Connor McDavid!”

He waves to the crowd and tips his hat. Less boos than he can remember from his last few outings, so Connor counts that as some kind of win.

Connor would normally hit a three wood or a long iron on this first tee with the very skinny fairway with hazards on either side, but this weekend he and Jack have decided to fuck it and be aggressive when they can, so he takes the driver and tries not to overthink it.

 _It’s just golf._ Connor repeats in his head. _It’s just golf._

“You suck, McDavid!” Jack yells breaking Connor out of the downward spiral of thoughts he was just beginning. He doesn’t think after that. Just takes a practice swing, lines up, and _crack_!

“Good ball!” Jack calls walking behind him as they make their way down the fairway chatting with Noah’s caddie, Jim.

It was a good drive, little to the left, but still safely in the fairway. He’s never going to outdrive Noah, who’s one of the bigger, longer hitters on Tour, but it’s a great distance off the tee for Connor.

“Relax,” Jack says surveying the Connor’s second shot location as Connor flips over his yardage book.

“You know, you telling me to relax doesn’t actually make me relax,” Connor comments pointedly but he can’t help but smile at Jack’s eyeroll.

“Fine, don’t relax. Stay tight and shank this into the gallery and finish off that old guy I tried to take out 4 years ago.”

“Fuck off,” Connor says turning to the side to test the wind a little.

“You got like 155. But, it’s uphill, upwind. I’d hit a 75% 8. Stay down on it. When you lift up, you’ve been pulling it, and you don’t want to end up in the deep bunker on the side of the green.”

“I think it would be safer to hit a 9. I don’t want to fly the green,” Connor retorts looking down at the green. He flew the green on Thursday, and it hadn’t been a good time.

“Trust me, Davo. Take a deep breath. Stay down, three quarter swing, and we’ll be dancing.”

Connor shrugs. He’s used to being able to trust himself. He knows himself and his game better than almost anything else. But, Jack’s right. It hasn’t been working. So, he needs to start taking some chances.

Connor takes the 8 iron from him with only a tiny bit of side eye.

“C’mon,” Jack murmurs backing up to let Connor hit. “Believe in yourself, here. It’s just a golf shot.”

Connor hasn’t believed in himself in a while. Not since he blew up his life and lost Dylan and his sanity along with him. But he is starting to trust Jack, and his brand of balls-to-the-wall golf. Connor never thought it would be his brand, but here he is.

He sighs. Takes two practice swings, backs off, lines up his shot, and—

“There we go, Davo. Looking like a 5 handicap, finally. Maybe you can beat my dad! What do you think?” Jack chirps taking the 8 iron from Connor and handing him his putter as they make their way down the rest of the fairway towards the green watching out for Noah. “We’re dancing. What did I tell you?”

Connor doesn’t respond to either the chirp or the stilted compliment, but he smiles at Jack as they watch Noah knock it in close.

They both birdie the first hole, and Jack looks at him like he’s ascended to a new realm. “Attaboy, Davo.”

What happens next Connor can only describe as an out of body experience. He’s played a lot of golf in his life and shot a lot of low rounds in junior golf tournaments, high school, college, and he’s even won on the Tour. He’s always felt very in control when he’s playing well. It’s like time slows down when he focuses in, and he can close his eyes and remember things like the birds chirping and the light chatter of the crowd. This isn’t like any of that at all.

Time doesn’t slow down. It’s not a smooth sailing, precise, methodical round like he’s always played when he’s won anything. It’s a chaotic up and down and around mess. But he’s pulling shit out of his ass, and before his mind can even catch up with what’s happened, he and Noah are holing out at 18, shaking hands, and Connor’s heading into the clubhouse at -5 for the day, -6 for the Championship and squarely in the hunt for Sunday.

“I don’t even know what just happened,” Jack comments quickly before Connor’s being pulled away by a CBS official who wants to get an interview outside on the steps of the clubhouse.

“We’ll debrief, just let me—” he tries to tell Jack, but he’s yanked away before he can finish his thought.

“Connor, I know you haven’t had the smoothest season. It’s been up and down. You were in the final pairing for the first time at a major earlier this year at the Masters, but then you’ve had some difficult starts, missed cuts, et cetera. While you don’t look entirely comfortable out there quite yet, do you think this has been an important step to say, hey I’m still here, and I’m still good enough to win every weekend?”

Connor blinks. He doesn’t think anyone could think he was able to win every weekend with the lack of consistency he showed in the last round, but— “I don’t know about that, exactly. Each weekend, I come out. I do my thing, and of course, I want to win. That’s what we’re all here for.”

“You’ve recently made a change at caddie going from having your longtime friend and college teammate Dylan Strome on your bag to cycling through some other caddies before landing on former PGA Tour pro Jack Eichel. How has the shift affected your game?”

“Yeah, it’s definitely been a bit of an adjustment period. Obviously, no one will ever be able to replace what Dylan’s done for me over the years since I’ve been a pro. He’s one of the smartest, most gifted golf minds I’ve ever met, and his impact on my career cannot be overstated. But of course, he had some unfinished business in his own individual playing career, and I wish him nothing but the best. I hope to play alongside him again out here. Jack and I are still getting used to each other out there, but we’ve played a lot together growing up doing NCAA and then on the Tour, so it hasn’t been too painful thus far.”

“I think I speak for a lot of people when I say you haven’t really looked like yourself since the Masters, and today, even though the outcome was better, you still seemed to struggle out there a little with consistency and ball striking. What are your plans to improve that moving forward to tomorrow’s final round?”

“Uh,” Connor spits back eloquently searching for one of the canned answers he’s known for. “I mean when you’re not playing your best, sometimes you just have to put your head down and just lean into what’s working, take some chances. So, I’m just trying to work through the kinks and everything and come out on the other side. Just go out there and play how I know how to play.”

“Thanks, Connor.”

They let him go, and he still feels totally off balanced and like he’s living someone else’s life, and he doesn’t know when he’s going to come crashing back down to earth, but he knows it’s soon, and it’s going to hurt.

Jack’s sitting in the clubhouse shooting the shit with Sam Reinhart and Jeff Skinner, two of the guys he was closest to when he was on Tour. “Hey, guys.”

“Oh hey, Davo,” Reino greets happily. Connor hasn’t done a deep dive into the leaderboard, but he knows Sam was only two shots off the lead to start the day, and it seems like his round went well. “You looked good out there today. Happy for you, man.”

“Thanks,” Connor says genuinely. Something that Connor appreciates about being on Tour is that all the guys really get how hard it is to get where they are. They know how tough it is to go out every week and put yourself out there when you’re playing poorly or slumping or just not feeling your most in shape or like you’re not at your best. The respect among Tour pros has always been something that Connor was pleasantly surprised about. They all want to win, sure, but no one wants to see a guy implode. That’s just not how the culture is.

“We all knew you’d turn it around, Davo,” Skins says getting up and clapping Jack on the back. “See you around, Eichs. And, Connor good luck tomorrow, man!”

Connor sits down in one of their vacant seats and sighs. He has absolutely no words to describe today’s round. None. Zero.

“So, that was unexpected,” Jack supplies helpfully.

“It was like—” Connor breaks off wringing his hands together. “It was like I was on a train, and I didn’t know where it was going, but I just hung on for dear life and just let it keep going and rolling and hoping that it didn’t crash or run me over or something.”

Jack stares at him for a long moment before breaking out into a huge grin laughing. “That was the worst fucking analogy I’ve ever heard. Good to know the real quality of that Wake Forest education.”

“Fuck off. I get it; you went to Duke. Did you even graduate?”

Jack rolls his eyes, “I didn’t only graduate. I graduated summa cum laude, fucker. My mom wouldn’t have it any other way.”

It’s Connor’s turn to roll his eyes, “Of course you did.”

“Listen, Davo, man,” Jack says turning to him face suddenly serious. “You played better because you stopped thinking so much. You don’t need to overanalyze this to death. You played better. The world kept turning. Everything’s fine. You’re fine.”

“I just—” Connor starts but he can’t find the words.

“Look, take a shower. Calm down. Let the day sink in. We can meet back up at the hotel if you still want to talk about it afterward.”

Connor nods. It’s the smart, logical thing to do. But his brain is screaming that he needs to go back to the hotel and watch the full round and think about his swing and his approach and—fuck. He’s going into Sunday at The Open two shots back from the lead.

“Stop, holy shit, Connor, stop,” Jack stands and crouches in front of him before he even realizes what’s happening. “Everything’s fine. Stop thinking about it. It’s just golf. Sometimes you hit the fairways and greens and sometimes you don’t. Sometimes the ball goes into the cup and sometimes it doesn’t. Today, you played well. The end.”

“I’m—” He tries to take a breath, but the room starts closing in on him, and he can’t fucking breathe.

When he comes to and his vision gets less blurry and he can focus on something other than the erratic beating of his own heart, Jack’s still there in front of him saying nonsense to him, at least Connor thinks it’s nonsense; he honestly can’t tell.

“You’re fine. Everything’s fine,” Jack says handing Connor a fresh, cold water bottle. “Everything’s fine. Take slow, small sips.”

Connor nods for lack of ability to do or say much else.

“We can’t do this here,” Jack says turning to look around the clubhouse. “Go to the locker room, do whatever you need to do, and we’ll reconvene.”

“I—”

“I’m not allowed in there, Connor. Or I would totally just get your shit, but I can’t. So, just take a breath, put on that media face, and I’ll meet you at the hotel, okay? Maybe I can get Hall or someone to—”

“I got it,” Connor assures standing up shakily with less dignity than he’d care to admit. “I’ll meet you after.”

Jack looks at him wearily but rocks slowly to his feet audibly wincing.

“Oh shit, your knee. Fuck, Jack, I—”

“I’m fine,” he says waving Connor off, but Connor can see how red his face is, and— “Jesus H. Christ, I’m just sore. Go get your shit, fucker. Don’t worry about me.”

Connor goes on autopilot after that. Most of the guys are off the course and have already cleared out for the night, so he’s able to shower, get his life together, and get out of there without anyone even glancing his way.

Jack somehow procured himself a key to Connor’s room, so he’s there sitting on the bed closest to the door that Connor hadn’t been sleeping in, knee wrapped in ice, poking at his iPad.

“Is that the round from today?” Connor asks going for lightly, but he knows Jack knows he’s eager to look.

“Maybe, but you’re not going to get to see, so,” Jack replies as Connor comes to sit at the foot of the bed. “Are you feeling a little less – I don’t know, crazy eyes McDavid?”

Connor shrugs picking at a loose thread on the hotel duvet. “I’m sorry about that, I just—”

“Hey,” Jack interrupts softly placing the iPad aside onto the bedside table. “Don’t fucking apologize. It’s tough, and I know a lot of people have been saying they get it, but I truly get it. It’s okay to fuck up. Like we all have to play through the skids sometimes? It’s not like everyone’s playing well every weekend all season long. No one can. And you’ve been going through it. Hard, and in front of the entire world. I know it hasn’t been easy. It’s okay to show some weakness. I’m not judging you.”

“I just – I don’t – I feel so out of control. It’s like – I know how to play golf. It’s literally the only thing I know how to do. I love it. I’ve given up everything for it. But, I just – I don’t know how to win anymore. I don’t know how to get out there and be confident and believe that the ball’s going to go where I want, and I’m not going to shank one into the crowd every other shot.”

Jack doesn’t say anything for a long minute, and Connor’s starting to feel even more embarrassed than before. Jack can’t fix this; no one can fix this. No one can say anything to make him better.

“What happened out there at 13 at Augusta?”

Connor sighs scrubbing his hand over his face. He does not want to have this conversation with Jack. He hasn’t even had this conversation with himself. “I dunno. It was like one minute, I was in the zone, following my destiny playing in the final round with Sidney fucking Crosby, and then the next I was hitting wayward bunker shots into hazards and getting 13s on holes. I just – I couldn’t recover from that.”

“But why?” Jack presses. “Dude, you came back from that triple bogey at sectionals junior year to drag Stromer and Alex’s asses to finals. I’ve seen you three-wack holes and come back to Eagle the next more times than I count. You know how to recover. Why was this different?”

That’s the million-dollar question, right there. And Connor doesn’t have an answer. “I wish I knew, Jack. Then, maybe I wouldn’t be here having this conversation with you. I wouldn’t have to feel like the whole world was going to close in on me every second of every day, and I—”

“Whoa, whoa,” Jack cuts him off sitting up and scooting closer to look Connor in the eyes. “it’s just fucking golf, man. It’s just golf—”

“Everyone keeps saying that, but it’s not just golf, Jack. It’s my life. Golf’s all I have, Jack.”

Jack just shakes his head, “I know you’re a Wake Forest guy, Davo, but you’re even dumber than I thought—”

“I—”

“Look around you, Connor. People absolutely love you. The guys on Tour respect the shit out of you. Stromer gave up how many years of his own career to caddie for you? He didn’t do it from some altruistic, bullshit place, he did it because he loves the shit out of you, man. You’re his best friend. He didn’t care if you were winning or losing on the course. He just wanted to help you chase your dreams—”

“But he left—”

“Because you chased him away, Connor,” Jack states firmly throwing his hands in the air. “There’s more to life than hitting a tiny ball in a little hole, okay? I know that better than anyone. Golf and the Tour isn’t forever—”

Connor swallows staring at the ice seeping into the fabric of Jack’s joggers. “I’m sorry, Jack. I’m such a—”

“Quit apologizing and listen to me! Why do you play golf? Do you play it for the money? Do you play it for the fame? For the prestige?”

“No, of course not,” Connor says immediately because Jack has to know that that’s bullshit. “I love golf. I love being out there on the course. Hitting a clutch putt or chipping it in from the fairway. Or just – I love being out there with the guys betting on closest to the hole on our off days, y’know?”

Jack nods leaning forward towards him, and Connor reaches out subconsciously to shift the bag of ice where it’s slipped down onto the duvet. “I see you, man. I see the kind of person you are off the course, and you’re a good guy, Davo. You play golf because you love it. But, don’t conflate that with being a slave to it. You don’t need golf to be happy, to be you. You don’t need to win any golf tournaments to be the person I know you are, okay? It’s like – stop putting all these expectations onto yourself. This shit is supposed to be fun. You know how much fun we had out there these last few rounds? Hitting drivers off the deck and playing trick shots and fucking around? That’s what golf can be. It doesn’t always have to be this crazy, serious win-at-any-cost thing.”

“But I want to win, Jack.”

“Of course, you do. So does every guy on Tour. And you will win, Connor. You will, but even if you never get those big major wins like you’ve always dreamed of, you’ll still be the same guy.”

Connor doesn’t know what makes him do it. It’s not premeditated in the slightest. Connor doesn’t know if he’s even had a passing thought about it before. But Jack’s looking at him like that, telling him all this hard to hear shit but at the same time, complimentary shit that he just doesn’t tell people. Connor’s heard him say like two non-backhanded compliments before in his life. Jack doesn’t do that for just anyone. And he’s telling Connor he sees him, and for the first time in a long time, Connor’s comfortable with being seen.

The kiss is soft at first, nothing more than a graze of lips, exploratory at the most. It’s kind of an awkward angle, Jack sitting now in the middle of the bed and Connor at his feet at the foot of the bed leaning toward him to the side.

Connor deepens the kiss once he’s certain Jack’s not going to pull away and crawls on top of Jack in the most graceful way he can manage.

“Just,” Jack says between kisses scooting back towards the headboard. “Watch my knee and the ice, okay?”

They make out for a long time. It’s slow and sweet and Jack’s warm and pliant underneath him. He’s a good kisser, Connor thinks idly. But he doesn’t kiss the way Connor expected, or at least what Connor would have expected if he’d actually have thought about it before.

The Jack he knows is loud and brash. He’s fucking famous for chirping, for god’s sake. He demands attention. But here in Connor’s hotel room at The Open? He seems to be good with letting Connor take the lead and set the speed; he’s not pushing Connor in any one direction, faster or slower.

“Is this okay?” Connor asks coming up for air moving to kiss Jack’s neck and across his collarbone.

“Mhm,” Jack hums affirmatively panting slightly. Connor would normally chirp him for it, but he can’t find the words.

“You good?” he asks again because he wants to make sure he’s not taking advantage or—

“Yes, shut the fuck up and kiss me, Davo,” he retorts pulling slightly at the hair curling at Connor’s neck.

There’s the Jack he knows. Connor laughs but obviously obliges.

They don’t actually get each other off, even though Connor’s been hard for the better part of a half an hour, and he can feel Jack’s erection from where it’s pressed against Connor’s thigh. Neither of them move to do anything about it though, and Connor doesn’t know why. But it just feels right to let the play develop a little more.

“Hey,” Jack stops him lightly combing a hand through the hair at the base of Connor’s neck. “I—”

Connor leans back a little on his heels so they can lock eyes.

“I just – I’m so stiff. I’m sorry—”

“It’s okay,” Connor says kissing Jack one more time moving off of him and standing up. “Do you need to elevate?”

“Yeah, sorry, can you just—”

Connor waves him off grabbing a pillow from the other side of the bed and getting it under Jack’s bad knee. He also lifts the now mostly melted ice off wrinkling his nose. “Do you need to keep icing, or can I get rid of this?”

“I don’t need it, but I can get it—”

Connor rolls his eyes, “I’m already up. It’s not a big deal.”

He tosses the rest of the ice and before he can talk himself out of it, he slides in next to Jack on the other side of the bed. Jack’s already picked up his abandoned iPad and continues to review the footage from the round.

“You’re still not getting to look at this,” he laughs tucking Connor under his arm anyway but titling the screen away. “It’s for your own good.”

Connor huffs a little, but in the end, he knows Jack’s right. He can’t afford to keep getting into his own head, and not watching anything back, while different than how he’s approached golf in the past, is probably a good idea.

Jack leans over to kiss his cheek before grabbing a pen to jot something down in the logbook he takes with him to all their rounds and practice sessions.

Connor just watches him for a while spacing out, thinking about the weird events of the day. A few hours ago, thinking back on the wild turn of the round that got him in contention would have scared the shit out of him. But now? Jack’s warm at his side, and Connor feels settled. He’s sure he’ll freak out in the morning, but for now, he just lets himself drift off slowly.

He wakes up the next morning to Jack shaking him awake, “Hey, Connor – it’s time to get up. I’m going to head back to my room and get ready and meet you at the range like normal, okay?”

He’s exhausted and kind of delirious, and he just wants to curl up with Jack and sleep for a million years. He doesn’t reach out for him, but it’s a near thing.

“Get up,” Jack says again like he can read Connor’s mind. “C’mon, today’s going to be fun.”

All Connor can muster is rolling onto his back and grunting unattractively.

“Wow, cute,” Jack comments laughing smacking a kiss onto Connor’s forehead. “Please get up. I’m going to call you in 20 minutes, and if you’re not out of the shower, I’m sending a hotel worker in here to do an in-person wake-up call.”

He’s playing with Price today, who despite being ranked in the top 5 in the World Golf Rankings every year since 2010, has yet to win a major. Connor knows he’s going to be dialed in, and the round won’t have the same relaxed feel as yesterday when he played with Noah.

The mood on the range when he rolls up is pretty subdued. It’s a little overcast, and all the guys who are still in contention are locked into their own pre-round routines.

He hits every club in his bag like he always does to get loose, and when Jack shows up, they go over the pin sheets and the wind conditions.

“Don’t stress about it,” Jack tells him when Connor knows he’s getting that pinched look on his face. “It’s a beautiful day to fuck some shit up.”

He doesn’t win The Open, not that he thought he would. But he puts together a solid 18. He’s still scrambling in a way he’s not used to, and triples one hole on the front 9. But he puts up a fight, takes some chances, and has a great time. It sounds so stupid, even in his head, but he enjoyed the experience. And, honestly, compared to most of the season, that’s important to Connor, especially for his mental health.

For the first time in months, Connor walks away from a tournament feeling proud of his effort, and he thinks it’s a really important step to getting his game back to where he wants it to be.

He doesn’t mean to start dating his caddie, and if Bobby found out, he’d have Connor’s head. He wasn’t happy with Connor when Dylan quit earlier in the year, telling Connor in a clipped tone that he never really ever gets with him, “that’s why you don’t mix your personal and professional life, kiddo.”

Working with your longtime best friend is one thing, but sleeping with your caddie? Bobby would actually yell at him for that.

But Jack makes him happy, and maybe it’s just another sign that Connor’s lost total control of his life, that he thinks “fuck it” and continues to do it anyway.

It helps that their professional relationship doesn’t change. Jack’s still Jack. Chirping him during rounds and being himself, but still being as professional as ever. He comes prepared each round, shows up to all Connor’s practice sessions and takes diligent and detailed notes, then applies those notes to Connor’s game. He’s been playing a little better, so that’s helped Connor feel less guilty about the whole thing.

The end of the season doesn’t so much as come to end, rather it’s more like a whimper. He misses the cut at the second FedEx Cup Playoff tournament, and despite having a decent start money and ranking wise, he couldn’t outrun what Jack calls Connor AM (After Masters) and is eliminated before the final tournament.

He knows he’s not making the President’s Cup team, either. So, it’s really just time to pack it in and go home to Newmarket to see his family before heading back down to his offseason house in Scottsdale. The thought, though, makes him a little sick.

He hasn’t spoken to Dylan since he quit, and it hasn’t been for Dylan’s lack of effort. He’s called Connor dozens of times, texted him even more, and even sent him some DMs on his social media accounts hoping Connor would respond. He hasn’t though.

At first it was because he was pissed. He was upset. He was hurt. Frankly, he was devastated. Now, though? He’s embarrassed. He treated Dylan like shit. No matter who was right in their argument, and now it truly, truly doesn’t matter, Dylan didn’t deserve to be tossed aside so easily. Connor destroyed the most important and consistent relationship in his life over one disagreement, and then he continued to double down again and again. He hates himself for it.

So, the thought of going back to Arizona where he and Dylan live ten minutes from each other and play at the same home course? It makes him want to throw up.

It’s not that he’s afraid to admit that he acted like an idiot. He’s admitted it to anyone who’s asked. He’s said he takes full responsibility for their relationship on and off the course breaking down. And, he’s also been singing Dylan’s praises to anyone who will listen. He’s played well since rejoining the Korn Ferry tour, and he should exempt through the first few stages of Q School. He’s going to get his tour card in September, Connor can feel it.

So it isn’t that he’s unwilling to meet Dylan more than halfway. It’s that he’s afraid to reach out. He’s afraid he’s alienated Dylan too much, and that their relationship is irreparable. If he doesn’t reach out, then he doesn’t give Dylan the opportunity to reject his apology and put the nail in the coffin of the most significant relationship of Connor’s adult life.

He and Jack have dinner after he gets cut, before they part ways for at least the foreseeable future. Connor knows he’s being a little moody, but he’s just so, so tired.

“Connor? Connor? Earth to Major McDavid. Come in McDavid,” Jack chirps lightly all but waving his hand in front of Connor’s face.

Connor snaps slowly out of his spiraling thoughts. “Sorry, I’m just – I’m just so over this season.”

“It’s cool,” Jack assures wincing a little. “I know you really haven’t been yourself for a while.”

Connor nods. He doesn’t want to admit it to Jack, but he hasn’t been himself for months, even though he does consider their relationship to be a positive revelation in that timespan. “I just need to go home, regroup, and not think about golf for a while.”

It’s probably a reflection of how tired and pathetic Connor looks that Jack doesn’t even crack a joke in return. “Yeah, it’ll be nice to see your family.”

Connor nods. He knows Jack’s been excited to see his parents and visit his sister and his little niece who just turned 2 earlier in the year. It’ll be a nice break for both of them. “What’s your plan after Boston?”

“I don’t know,” Jack says moving his food around with his fork not meeting Connor’s eyes. “Gonna spend a week or two with my parents and then some time at Jessie’s, and then I guess I’ll head back to Jupiter and start teaching some off-season golf lessons. Play it by ear.”

“Jack Eichel, teaching professional. Who would have thought?” Connor says smiling.

Jack laughs but there’s something behind it that seems pained. Connor doesn’t have the energy to even begin to unpack his slight grimace as he says, “There’s nothing I love more than spreading the joy of the game of golf to people everywhere – or at least in the rich part of Florida.”

Connor smiles rolling his eyes. His brain is telling him that somethings’s wrong, and Jack’s using humor to deflect, but Connor’s too fucking tired to deal with it. So, he ignores it. He’ll wonder later if it makes him a bad person, or at the very least, a terrible boyfriend.

The next day is harder than Connor had imagined. Even though he’s more than ready to put this golf season behind him and lick his wounds in Toronto where he’s gotten recognized not on a golf course a total of 2 times in his entire life, it’s super hard to say goodbye to Jack at the airport.

They go to the counter to check their clubs together and then head to security. Connor knows he’s dragging his feet when he realizes their flights are out of terminals on the opposite ends of the airport, but he can’t help it. The last few months have been difficult. He’s been going through some shit, and Jack’s been the steady presence that he needed to stay sane. Connor doesn’t know what he’ll do without him.

“You’ll be fine,” Jack assures crushing him in a hug before the part ways. They stand there for a while gripping onto each other not saying anything. There’s really nothing to say. “Take a break. Eat your mom’s cooking. Visit your grandparents, and for the love of god, even out that awful golf tan.”

Connor rolls his eyes, like Jack doesn’t have a similar tan line problem. If anything, his is worse because all he does is burn and then peel, and he never remembers to reapply sunscreen during the round. “Hey, I – thanks, y’know? For like being there for me when I was at my worst.”

“Hey,” Jack says softly pulling Connor in again tightly. “Don’t – not playing good golf isn’t you at your worst, okay? You’re more than your game or your World Ranking.”

Connor shrugs stepping back from the hug biting his lip as hard as he can because he doesn’t want to cry in the airport. He doesn’t even know why he’s upset. His miserable PGA Tour season is finally over. He gets to go home and be with people who don’t care about his Tour average, or his World Ranking, or his number on the money list. He can spend the next few weeks decompressing while shooting the shit with his brother, playing mini-sticks with his nephew, and forgetting this year ever happened. He should be running towards that plane as fast as his legs will carry him.

Maybe he’s upset because he knows that once he gets on that plane, he’ll officially begin his offseason, and he finally has to accept everything that’s happened: losing Dylan, losing golf, losing his goddamn sanity, and accepting that feeling that he’s out of control all the time is just who he is now.

“Aw, babe,” Jack says trying to drag Connor back in. Connor hates that he put that look on Jack’s face. “It’s only up from here, alright?”

“I just, fuck—” he says shaking his head trying to make sense of everything he’s feeling suddenly all at once. “This whole year seems like a bad dream, and I – I’m not ready for it to feel real.”

Jack kisses him softly before pulling back and rubbing at his own eyes. It makes Connor feel marginally better that neither one of them can keep it together. “Believe me, I know the feeling, Connor. It’ll pass.”

Connor feels so stupid all of sudden. He’s so fucking dramatic. He’s just been playing bad golf, it’s not like—

“Stop, I’m fine,” Jack says as if he can read Connor’s mind sniffling face redder than normal. “Text me when you land, okay?”

“Of course,” Connor nods slowly shouldering his bag but unsure if his feet will actually agree to carry him away. “I’ll call you tonight?”

Jack grins at him laughing to himself. “I’ll be up waiting by the phone—”

“Shut up, Eichs. Way to ruin the moment.”

Jack laughs rocking back on his heels, “Aww, I’m sorry did I ruin McJesus’s perfect airport goodbye scene? Are you going to sprint through the airport after me when I leave?”

“I hate you,” Connor chirps back lamely.

“No, you don’t,” Jack quips back. “C’mon bring it in one last time.”

Connor rolls his eyes but happily obliges kissing Jack quick before he chickens out. “I’ll call you.”

“You better!” Jack says firmly and then just as quickly disappears into the mess of people looking for their gate numbers.

He spends the first week and half in Newmarket being a total recluse. It’s warm enough that his parents still have the pool open, so he spends his days out in the yard evening out his tan, sleeping in the sun, and being in denial that eventually he’ll have to play golf again. He spends his evenings with his parents and grandparents, helping his mom around the house and manning the grill. A few times Cam and his wife drop by, and he plays with Cayden out in the yard or lets Cam talk his ear off about the promotion he thinks he’s getting next month at work.

His family is a pretty good distraction. But nothing can distract him when he lays down at night, and he’s totally alone and all he can see is Dylan’s face when Connor told him to lose his number that then becomes reliving his final round at Augusta, and then that becomes every terrible shot he’s hit in the last three months on a loop in his head until he finally, finally succumbs to sleep.

Connor’s parents mostly let him stew in silence, and no one mentions golf for probably the longest time in his adult life.

“When do you think you’re going to head down to Arizona?” his dad asks faux casually a few days later. It’s the closest thing anyone’s come to saying the g-word in Connor’s vicinity since he’s been home.

Connor shrugs, “Not exactly rushing to get down there.”

“You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need, Connor. But, don’t – running from your problems isn’t going to help.”

“I’m fine, dad,” he lies through his teeth. “Everyone has ups and downs on Tour. I just need to get away from golf for a while. Decompress and everything.”

Connor’s dad nods but Connor knows he can see right through him. “Just know we’re here, okay? If you want to talk, or cry, or – anything, really. It’s just golf, Connor. Remember that.”

“Yeah, I know,” he replies. He should get that phrase embroidered on a shirt. “I’m fine, really. Obviously, I wanted the season to go better, but I know I’m going to be fine.”

“Sure,” his dad agrees easily clapping him on the back leaving Connor to lounging and working on his tan like he doesn’t live in Arizona in the winter.

Three weeks later, he’s still in Canada, and while he’s still been going to the gym and following Gary’s workouts religiously as always, he hasn’t even looked at a golf course since he got cut during his last start on Tour.

He knows his parents are worried, and a lot of the guys on Tour who spend their offseasons in Arizona have started to text him more and more aggressively seeing where he’s at. It’s not uncommon for a lot of guys to purposefully take time off and not play rounds except with their buddies here or there during the first third of the offseason, but it’s just not something Connor’s ever done before. He’s not really answering anyone’s concerns. He just tells Nursey and Hallsy that he’s taken some time to get his head on and tells his parents he’s fine and that he just needs to think about what he wants to do.

Part of him thinks maybe he really doesn’t want to play professional golf anymore, even though he’s definitely not ready to voice that out loud.

He talks to Jack pretty much everyday, usually about nothing. Jack just fills him in on the lessons he’s teaching, including a little boy who threw a club into a hazard when Jack took him out to play a few holes. “Apparently he wasn’t ready,” Jack had explained laughing. “I thought it was hilarious. But the dad yelled at me for like a good 20 minutes.” Jack’s also been hanging out with a lot of the guys that live near Jupiter, and of course is spending most of his days shooting the shit with Noah. He seems to be having a good offseason, thus far. At least, from his stories. It’s hard to tell with Jack because while he’s a pretty emotional guy on and off the course, he’s pretty good at deflecting and avoiding remotely anything that has to do with seeing him in a vulnerable light.

Connor’s not really sure what they’re doing. If they’re doing long-distance or what. He’s doing long-distance, at a minimum, he supposes because Connor’s certainly not sleeping with anyone else, but he has no idea what Jack’s been doing or who.

“You know, if you’re not ready or whatever, I mean I’m not going to let you hide, but you could always come down to Jupiter and crash with me for a while,” Jack suggests one night seemingly out of the blue. “Ease back into being a human.”

Connor shouldn’t say yes. He should go to Arizona and talk to Stromer and resume his normal offseason routine. Going to Florida wouldn’t just be running from his problems, it would be delaying the inevitable. Connor has to come to terms with what’s happening to his career. He should go play at his home course with his swing coach and break himself down so he can be built back up for next season.

But since Connor’s resigned many months ago that he’s lost control of his life, he goes to fucking Florida.

Jack’s condo in Jupiter is small but neat and homey – and very Jack. There’s pictures of his family all over the place, pictures of him and Noah from Duke and even some with Reino and Skins from Tour a few years back. Most surprisingly, there’s a framed picture or him, Noah, Connor, and Dylan from the ACC Tournament when they were seniors.

“I don’t even remember taking this,” Connor laughs picking up the picture frame and eyeing all of their terrible hair choices. “We’re all so young.”

Jack just rolls his eyes, “I’m still young, fucker. Speak for yourself.”

“Why do you have this?”

Jack shrugs, “We were four top golfers in our class, and I just – I like to remember where I came from, y’know? All four of us played some great golf over those four years, and that was like an end of an era.”

No one could accuse Connor of being sentimental, so he really doesn’t get it. Just another thing about Jack that seems not to add up.

Spending a lot of time together on Tour and living with someone is very different, it turns out. On Tour, Connor and Jack were working, and even as Jack was trying to get Connor to loosen up out on the course and have fun playing golf again, he was still taking his own job as Connor’s caddie pretty seriously.

Being on Tour is a grind. It’s mentally, emotionally, and physically exhausting. It’s hotel room after hotel room, rental cars, bad hotel breakfasts, bad lunches at the course, sunburn, blisters from forgetting to break in pair of shoes before your sponsor wants you to wear them on TV, and just general upheaval from being in a different city, state, and sometimes country each week. There’s times when Connor actually has forgotten not only what day it is but where he physically is.

Because of that, some guys are a lot different on Tour than they are in real life – it’s the combination of the lifestyle and the pressure of the situation, Connor’s always thought. It makes some people act a little crazy.

Jack’s still Jack, but he’s somehow different. Or maybe, maybe it’s Connor who’s actually different; he can’t really tell. Connor assumes that most professional athletes, especially those who compete in individual sports, can’t help but be a little self-involved. Not in a rude, superficial or vain way, just more of a factual way. Like your livelihood is based solely on your performance, so guys get pretty into what they eat, what their training looks like, how they take care of their body, their routines, etc., and really don’t break from their routines. You literally have to control every aspect of your life sometimes, or at least, that’s what it feels like.

So, Connor definitely admits that he spent a lot of time over the season thinking about himself – his game, his schedule, his workouts, his diet, etc. etc., and Jack, as Connor’s caddie, his literal job was to think about Connor’s game and schedule and play.

They spent so much time talking about Connor and his own golf, it’s kind of jarring how much he doesn’t know about who Jack is off the course, and he doesn’t really realize there was so much to know until Jack starts letting him in.

Jack scrambles his eggs and drenches them with ketchup every single morning and only likes toast if it’s a little burnt. He always buys too many avocados and never eats them all before some of them inevitably go bad.

He always fills up his gas tank when he hits ¼ of a tank left and yells at Connor when he leaves his rental on empty, ranting about how the gauges aren’t exact and eventually he’s going to gamble on the wrong day and run out of gas in the middle of the street.

Connor can’t tell if he really likes giving lessons, but he makes the best of it. He especially seems to like teaching kids, and when Connor goes with him to his home course for the first time, it’s blatantly obvious that the members find him charming and funny and are fiercely loyal to him.

They haven’t talked about it, but Connor assumes that this isn’t what Jack had imagined his life to be when they graduated from college and got their pro cards, but he’s settled into his life and has this way about him that just reminds Connor to live each and every day. He’s more content with the everyday monotony of his life than almost anyone Connor’s ever known.

Everything’s going great, until it’s not.

Connor’s a very heavy sleeper. He has been since he can remember. When he was little and used to go to sleep-away camp every summer, he was a prime target for late night pranks because he literally could sleep through anything. One notable summer, they lifted him and his bed out of his cabin and onto the dock and Connor not only slept through the entire thing but didn’t wake up until 9AM the next morning.

Initially, when he got to Florida, he was too distracted by the newness of the situation to work himself up at night like he had been at his parents’ place at Newmarket. Of course, it doesn’t last, and eventually he’s finding it harder and harder to crash right away, thinking about Dylan and golf and Sidney Crosby and the Masters.

He finally falls into a fitful sleep one night only to be startled awake by Jack screaming, and it’s not like anything Connor’s heard before; it’s a blood-curdling scream. That’s really the only way to describe it.

“What happened?” He asks shooting straight up in bed and putting a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s fine. I’m fine; everything’s fine,” Jack replies slowly. But he doesn’t sound fine at all. If anything, he sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than Connor.

“Jack, babe,” Connor says rubbing a smooth circle on Jack’s back to hopefully help him calm down. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

“I’m fine. It’s good. Everything’s fine,” he says again but Connor can feel him start to shudder. “Just a nightmare. It’s fine. Don’t—"

“Oh shit, babe—” Connor says gathering him into his arms and getting him to lay back. Connor kisses his hairline. “Shhh, it’s okay. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

Jack starts to cry then. It’s almost inaudible, more of a whimper than a cry, really. Connor just holds him through it, kissing his hairline again, letting him know that Connor’s there and he’s safe, and everything’s going to be fine.

Jack starts to freeze him out after that. It’s not overt, not right away, at least as far as Connor can tell. Jack starts to carefully avoid his eyes when they’re just talking. Their conversations feel less natural and more stilted. Any time Connor tries to bring up something more personal than the weather, Jack carefully and artfully shuts him down. Look, Connor’s had his share of media training, and he can smell the careful avoidance before Jack even opens his mouth.

“You know,” Connor says a week or so later over breakfast because he doesn’t know how much longer he can take this. “We don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to. But everyone has their shit, Jack. God knows the entire world’s seen me shit out all of mine over some of the nicest golf courses in the world. I’d never judge you, okay. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

Jack stares at him for a minute, and Connor kind of thinks he may try to pretend he doesn’t know what Connor’s talking about. “No offense McDavid, but with the shit you’ve been producing you couldn’t judge anyone, I mean pathetic doesn’t even begin to describe—”

“Don’t do that!” Connor interjects.

“What?” Jack asks seemingly startled by the outburst.

“Don’t try to deflect with a chirp every time you feel uncomfortable with a conversation.”

Jack opens his mouth to retort but immediately snaps his mouth shut. “You usually think it’s funny.”

“Yeah, sure,” Connor agrees because he does. He enjoys Jack’s lame jokes probably more than anyone else. “But not when you’re using it as a defense mechanism to try to block me out, here. I trust you, so much, Jack. Why can’t you let me in?”

“I just—” he starts and stops looking down his breakfast suddenly fascinating. “I – it’s the accident, y’know. Sometimes, I dream about it, and it feels so fucking real, Connor – and it’s like – it feels like it’s happening again and again, and I can hear the crunch—” he squeezes his eyes shut. “It just always feels so real. I’m sorry, y’know? I didn’t mean to scare you.”

They’ve never really talked about the accident. It hasn’t been the elephant in the room, really, but it’s definitely been there lurking under the surface. He’s never heard Jack talk about it to anyone. And, it’s frankly jarring that he’s clearly still dealing with the fallout from it if still having vivid nightmares, and Connor had no idea.

“You didn’t scare me, not really,” Connor says immediately. “I just – I don’t want to see you hurt. I know it’s something that’s difficult for you to talk about.”

“Yeah,” Jack agrees shrugging, and that’s all he gets before Jack shuts down for the rest of the day.

Jack’s still weary of him it seems, but he definitely tries to not deflect as much but at the same time, he’s not going out of his way to let Connor see the vulnerable parts of him, either.

They go to Noah’s one night for a barbeque; he just got named to the U.S.’s President’s Cup team, so a lot of the guys who came to celebrate drink a little too much, and Jack ends up getting tossed in the pool fully clothed. He just laughs it off, spitting insults at everyone as usual. He seems more relaxed than he has in days, and Connor doesn’t know where to catalogue that information.

Eventually, the guys begin to filter out claiming kids and wives and practice rounds in the morning until it’s just him, Noah, and Jack sitting around Noah’s firepit.

“So, what do you think, Eichs? You’ve been looking good in practice. I bet Peter can make some calls and get you into some rehab tournaments to requalify for the Tour.” Noah asks smiling at Jack. He looks more serious than normal, like he’s waiting for Jack to try to buck him off.

Jack just shrugs, but Connor can feel the arm around Connor’s waist stiffen considerably. “I dunno. Just playing it by ear, y’know? I don’t want to come back before I’m ready.”

Connor feels cold all of a sudden because he knew, he obviously knew that they hadn’t nearly even begun to unpack everything about the accident and Jack’s golf career and whatever, but Connor had no idea that Jack could come back. He didn’t even know if it was something he’d thought about and wanted to pursue. And of course it makes sense, Jack was a an up-and-coming star, had won multiple PGA events, played in a Ryder Cup and was ready, at least in Connor’s opinion, to win a major, but that seems so far away now.

“I just don’t want to see the window close on you, man,” Noah explains shrugging one shoulder. “Maybe it’s time.”

“I’m thinking about it.”

Noah lets it drop and picks back up talking about Tiger calling him to announce his pick for about the 100th time.

They ride back to Jack’s condo in an uncomfortable silence.

Eventually Jack relents, “Just say whatever you’re going to say.”

Connor doesn’t like his tone but chooses not to comment on it. He takes a breath reaching over to put his hand on Jack’s thigh hoping that the gesture grounds some of this conversation. “I just didn’t know you were thinking about playing professionally again, is all. But I mean it’s great—”

“I haven’t really been. Thinking about it, that is,” he shrugs but Connor can feel him tense under Connor’s hand. “I’m never going to be the player I was before—”

“Well, that doesn’t mean—”

“Let me finish, Jesus,” Jack interrupts. “I’ve accepted I’m never going to be who I was before. I can’t generate the same kind of power, physically. Look, I know what it takes to be on Tour. I know what it takes to win on Tour, and I just don’t know if I have that in me anymore, is the thing.”

Connor blows out a breath because of all the things he’d imagined Jack saying that wasn’t one of them. “It’s obviously your choice, and I’ll support whatever you decide. But I mean I love watching you play.”

“Thanks, baby,” Jack says softly, sincere in a way he rarely ever is. He laces together their fingers and kisses the top of Connor’s hand. “I appreciate that a lot.”

When they get home, they each have another glass of wine and make out on Jack’s deck. Everything about them is complicated: their shared and separate history, their relationship, their entangled personal and professional lives, but this? This is about as simple as it gets. Jack’s perfect fucking mouth and heated expression, looking at Connor like that? It shuts all those other things down. Makes them irrelevant. If Connor could live in this moment, just move in and never leave? He would. It’s as simple as that. He’ll stay as long as Jack’ll have him.

They finally make it to bed, a trail of various clothes in their wake that Connor knows Jack’s going to bitch about tomorrow when he trips over something. But Connor doesn’t give a shit in the moment. He’s not thinking about that. He’s just thinking about getting his mouth and his hands on Jack’s pale skin now. Immediately.

“Fuck me?” Connor asks trying to catch his breath kissing that spot on Jack’s neck that makes his toes curl.

“Fuck—” Jack says eloquently flipping them so Connor’s on his back with Jack looming over him. Sometimes, Connor knows he’s too cautious of Jack’s physical limitations because of the accident. He just doesn’t want to hurt him, okay. But then Connor remembers the tall, strong kid from Duke who looked more like a lean hockey player than a golfer, and seeing that strength? It does things for Connor. “Are you sure?”

Connor laughs chasing Jack’s mouth. “Jack, babe – I’d probably literally let you do anything.”

“Okay, let’s not get crazy, idiot,” he says laughing tucking his face into Connor’s neck, and Connor can feel him shudder.

Jack takes another second before moving off Connor and reaching into his bedside table. “Are you sure?” he asks again biting his lip.

“Babe,” Connor says cupping his face with one hand. “Of course I’m sure,” he says firmly because he doesn’t understand Jack’s reservation.

“Okay, but like – we can stop whenever, so just tell me—”

“C’mon,” Connor murmurs pulling him back on top of him.

They just kiss for a while Jack’s hand digging into the soft skin of Connor’s lower back. “C’mon,” Connor murmurs again placing his hand over Jack’s to ground him.

Jack snips at his lower lip a little in retaliation but flips them again in one swift, strong motion and moves his hand to cup Connor’s ass and squeezes on the good side of hard.

Connor’s hips buck immediately, and Jack just laughs a little in his ear as he starts open Connor up slowly.

Connor’s never done this before. If he’s being honest, he’s never trusted someone else enough to let them see everything in him – to lay himself out there in such a vulnerable position. It’s just a mental block that he’s really never been able to overcome in any of his other relationships. But, Jack’s not like any of his exes. He knows Connor – he’s seen the good and the bad and everything in between, and Connor doesn’t know how smart it is, but he trusts Jack emphatically. He doesn’t know how not to.

Jack continues to add a finger working Connor open so slowly it’s almost torturous. “C’mon. C’mon. C’mon,” Connor complains rocking his hips.

Jack laughs, “I just don’t want to hurt you, babe. I want this to be good for you.”

He doesn’t know how to tell Jack that there’s no way this couldn’t be good for him. Not with Jack, but he doesn’t know how to say that without confessing things that he hasn’t even been able to process himself.

Connor just starts kissing Jack’s neck, his collarbone, and tries to just stay in the moment and not rush anything anymore. Let it happen, he tells himself.

“Shit,” Jack says as he runs his hand through the hair at the base of Connor’s neck and Connor can feel where he’s leaking against Connor’s thigh. Connor takes the heel of his hand and just brushes it faintly against Jack’s erection for a second, just to see what he can do. “Fuck, okay, okay.”

Jack slithers out from underneath him, Connor moans slightly from the absence. Connor needs Jack to do something now before he dies from this shit.

“Hold on, alright,” Jack bitches, and Connor can hear him rip open the condom before he comes back. Connor can feel Jack’s weight on top of him and his own dick his painfully aching he’s so fucking turned on. He needs it.

Jack doesn’t do anything at first just fills Connor up and rocks his hips slowly, almost experimentally. “Jack, babe—” he whines, “please, just—”

“Okay, sorry, sorry—” Jack says softly kissing the base of Connor’s spine. “I – it’s just a lot – you’re always a lot, Davo.”

He starts moving then, slowly at first and then gradually faster and faster, and he gets his hand around Connor and—

“Fuck,” Connor says had lolling to the side. “Yeah, Jack—”

Jack had been gentler with Connor than Connor usually expects leading up to this point, but as soon as he sees how much Connor’s getting going, he grinds down roughly and Connor just – his brain totally whites out. “Yeah, babe – just like—"

“Shut up, Connor – or I’m not gonna last,” Jack bitches starting to jack Connor off between them picking up his pace fucking Connor on the good side of hard right into the mattress.

Jack slams into his prostrate then and then again and again, and Connor comes with an embarrassing cry biting hard into Jack’s neck.

Jack comes a short moment later hips snapping roughly him barely making a sound, just a short whimper Connor’s never heard come out of his mouth before.

Jack rolls off him slowly getting up to toss the condom into the trash. “That was—” he starts and stops.

“Yeah,” Connor confirms reaching for his wrist smiling dopily at him. “C’mere.”

Jack rolls his eyes but looks fond and lets Connor drag him down back onto the bed. “Mcjesus, the cuddle monster, who knew?”

Connor doesn’t say anything back; he’s too happy. He just lets Jack gather him close, and it isn’t long until they both pass out for the night.

“When are you ending your vacation and coming home, Connor?” Randy calls him a few days later. “Look, we’re getting dangerously close to the point if we don’t start looking at your swing and making some major changes, we’re not going to be able to before you make your first Tour start of the year. What’s the plan, Connor? What do you need us to do to get you ready?”

He doesn’t know. For the first time in as long as he can remember, he doesn’t have a plan. He has no idea what the play is. “I don’t know, Randy. I – maybe I’ll take the first half of the season off. I feel like I could really use the time.”

There’s an ear shattering silence on the other end of the line, “Connor, you’re in the beginning of the prime of your career. You’re never going to get this time back, kiddo – a few bum rounds is not a reason to lose out on winning tournaments and gaining momentum and sponsors—”

Jesus, he sounds like Bobby, who Connor’s also been carefully avoiding. “I just – I don’t know if I want to play golf anymore,” he blurts and fuck.

“I think that’s a mistake, Connor,” Randy sighs. “You’re so talented—”

Connor takes a deep breath trying to stop the emotion that’s building in his chest. “I just. It’s not fun for me anymore.”

“Oh, kiddo. I’m not trying to pry too much into your life, but maybe it’s time for you to talk to someone. You’re not alone in this, Connor.”

Connor knows that, intellectually. But, even with Jack out there with him on the course and Bobby, Randy, and the rest of his team and sponsors behind him, he’s never felt more alone playing golf.

“Look, you know where to find me when you’re ready, okay? And if you want to work with someone out there in Florida, let me know. I can send you some names and suggestions. I’ll even set it up.”

“Thanks, Randy,” he says finally trying not to cry.

Jack finds him there, still sitting there on the couch, hunched over head between his legs trying to fucking breathe, but he doesn’t know if he knows how anymore.

“Shit, hey – Connor?” Jack says kneeling in front of him like that day in the clubhouse at The Open. Connor winces internally thinking of Jack’s knee.

“I don’t think I want to play golf anymore, Jack. I don’t even think I like golf anymore,” he blurts immediately. And damn, he didn’t think he was ready to say it but apparently his mouth has decided he is.

“Okay, okay,” Jack says slowly. “It’s not the end of the world.”

“If you tell me it’s just golf, I swear to god—”

Jack laughs but it feels a little forced and wet. Connor really doesn’t think he can handle it if he starts crying too. “C’mon, get up. I want to take you somewhere.”

Connor doesn’t want to go anywhere. He wants to go to bed and wake up a year ago when he and Dylan were still speaking and golf was still the love of his life. But Jack has that look on his face that brokers no arguments, and Connor really trusts him. So, he goes into the bathroom, splashes water on his face and follows Jack out to his truck. Jack throws both of their clubs into the trunk, which Connor doesn’t love, but he just gets into the passenger seat and lets Jack take them wherever.

He’s kind of expecting for Jack to take them to the Club that Jack teaches at and both he and Noah belong to. But the drive he takes them on is about twenty minutes longer and to a course Connor’s never been to.

“I don’t want to play golf, Jack. I can’t—”

“Trust me, okay?” Jack asks, which is a dirty pull because Connor knows he can’t say no.

“Eichs!” someone exclaims when they walk into the pro shop. “You made it, man!”

It’s Matt Moulson who’s standing there chatting idly with the shop pro. Matt was still on Tour when Connor and Jack were rookies, and then he later retired, and somehow Jack convinced him to be on his bag. They’ve met before, Connor’s sure. But he doesn’t know if they’ve ever really had a conversation. This feels like something big. Something – he doesn’t know. But, he knows Matt is one of the most important people in Jack’s life.

“Yep, I’m here, in the flesh. Where’s Georgie?” Jack asks greeting the pro as well, who then disappears into the back room.

“On the range,” Moulson says laughing. “He says this is the day he’s going to beat me.”

Jack snorts rolling his eyes fondly and then turns to Connor. “You remember my boyfriend, Connor?”

Matt rolls his eyes turning to Connor to shake his hand, “Nope, who? Sorry – hey McDavid, how are you?”

“I’m okay,” Connor replies shrugging shaking his hand.

“Georgie’s going to freak,” he comments turning towards the door. “Thanks, Ryan!” he yells to the shop pro.

“Uncle Jack!” a pre-teen boy maybe 11 or 12 yells as much as someone can at a country club as he meets them at the first tee box.

“What’s up, kiddo?” Jack says hugging him tightly ruffling his hair. “I hear I’m talking to one of the top junior golfers in Florida.”

“Yep!” he beams at Jack. “I have my last tournament coming up, are you going to come?”

“If I can, bud. I’ll ask your dad for the details.”

“Awesome!” he then turns to look presumably for his dad when his eyes land on Connor for the first time. “You’re Connor McDavid.”

“Uh—” Connor says rubbing the back of his neck.

“Holy crap, you’re Connor McDavid—” he breaks off turning to glare daggers at his dad. “Dad! You didn’t tell me Uncle Jack’s new boyfriend was Connor McDavid!

Jack laughs so hard he cries.

Connor hasn’t played a lot of with kids. He’s done some junior Pro-Ams over the years, but in general being in his 20s, he doesn’t know a lot of people who have kids yet, and therefore, doesn’t really come into contact with them much.

Georgie’s a pretty good golfer. He’s a long hitter for his age, like his dad and has a pretty good short game. They let him hit from the senior tees while they play from the blacks, so he’s coming close to outdriving them on occasion.

It’s different watching someone who doesn’t have any expectations on how they’re supposed to feel when they play golf – someone who has no expectations on what golf Is supposed to make him feel. Someone who doesn’t think about it more than, it’s a game. It’s not the means to anything other than a pastime.

Matt and Jack are betting on each hole and talking so much non-PGA approved trash. But, Connor’s kind of not present enough to even participate in the discourse. He’s just letting the day wash over him. He doesn’t even keep score – which is honestly a revelation. He didn’t know he was capable.

“Good?” Jack asks pulling him back into a little bit of reality patting his thigh as they sit in the cart waiting for the group in front of them so they can hit.

“Uh, yeah? Actually? Like just enjoying the day. It’s nice out here.”

“Yeah,” Jack says giving his thigh a squeeze with a crooked grin. “It really is.”

So, maybe, it’s not golf that he hates. He enjoyed the day. Watching Jack and Matt needle at each other and Georgie chirp them back – watching him learn the game and bounce back after bad shots. It reminds him of growing up. He and Cam could not get out on the course enough, some weekends they’d try to fit in 54 holes. It’s crazy how somehow it seems like both yesterday and a million years ago. Like Connor knows that that kid is still somewhere inside of him, he just hasn’t seen him in a while.

He doesn’t hate golf, he realizes. He just hates how it makes him feel. He has no idea if that’s a positive revelation.

“I think I need to talk to someone,” Connor admits on the drive back to Jack’s condo. Jack had begged off dinner with Matt and his family but promised that he and Connor would come around a little more while they’re in town.

“I think it would probably be a positive step. At the end of the day, golf is just a thing you do, Connor. You need to stop giving it so much power over you.”

He calls Bobby the next day asking him to try to find someone local and discreet and it’s the happiest that he’s heard his agent in a while. “I’m proud of you, Connor.”

Connor doesn’t know what for, but he appreciates the sentiment.

He starts playing more, but he tells himself he’s only playing rounds for fun, and he’s not hitting balls on the range until he can do so without the task making him feel like he’s spiraling out of control. He’s only playing if he can have fun.

He plays with Noah and Reino and even Matt when Jack’s busy giving lessons, but a lot of days, it’s just him and Jack out on the course, shooting the shit and relaxing. It feels like he’s on vacation all the time, which he guesses he kind of is.

“So, Peter got me a medical exemption for the last three events of the Korn Ferry Tour. If I do well, I’ll be able to earn back my pro card.” Jack says in the car after they played a round with Noah at a different course while he preps for the President’s Cup.

“Yeah? I forgot they changed Q School. Are you going to go?” Connor asks hesitantly. They still haven’t talked about anything surrounding Jack’s golf, Connor realizes guiltily. But Jack’s been playing really well. He’s lost yardage off the tee and doesn’t quite have the same bounce that he had before. But, teaching all those lessons chipping and putting have made his hands softer around the greens.

Jack shrugs, “I don’t know if my knee’s going to be able to take all the pounding, but my physical therapist – anyway, I think I’m ready to try.”

Jack moves from vacation mode to training mode almost immediately. He’s still Jack, but he’s more intense and focused, and he’s been going to meetings and talking to sponsors and gearing up for the announcement.

“I hate this shit,” he tells Connor who’s grilling steaks out on Jack’s deck. “Nike wants to do a video, and this whole thing about overcoming obstacles and that’s such – fuck, I’m a golfer – I’m not curing cancer over here.”

“Who is it over there, Kerry?” Connor asks because he’s signed with Nike for his apparel deal too. “That dude never knows how to read the room.”

Jack laughs shaking his head and opens his mouth to respond just as his phone starts to ring. “Fuck,” he says looking at it. “I gotta take this.” He comes up behind Connor and kisses the back of his neck. “I’ll be quick.”

He’s not quick, and when he finally emerges from inside the condo back onto the deck, the sun’s gone down, Connor’s finished his steak and is on his third glass of wine.

Jack looks subdued but doesn’t apologize, and Connor watches him eat his now cold steak in silence wondering what the hell that was about.

Connor wakes up that night to an empty bed. He sits up and tries to see if the light’s on in the en suite washroom, and he can’t see it. Connor doesn’t know if he should try to push Jack, but he can tell something’s wrong.

He finds Jack in the living room on the couch wrapped in a thick blanket covering his entire body including his head and face. Connor doesn’t really know what to make of that.

“Jack?” he calls. “Are you okay?”

“Huh?” he mutters struggling to stick his head out of the blanket. Connor would laugh but his face is all red and blotchy when he finally emerges. “Sorry,” he says rubbing his hand over his face. “I didn’t mean to wake you. That’s why I moved down here.”

Connor comes and sits next to him on the couch and it’s a reflection of how exhausted Jack must be because he falls immediately into Connor’s chest letting him take most of his weight. “What’s going on?”

“God, I don’t even know anymore. Fuck, I’m so sick of feeling broken.”

And, that’s – that’s not something that he’s ever thought he’d hear come out of Jack’s mouth. The Jack he knows is loud and brash and competitive. He’s sarcastic and funny and intense and 100%, undeniably himself all the time. And yeah, Connor’s seen him hurt and upset and sad, but he’s always so good at picking himself up, dusting himself off, and seeing the good in the situation. He’s a good scrambler on the course, probably one of the best, ever – and he carries that mindset into his everyday life.

“You’re not broken,” Connor says firmly. “Nothing about you is broken.”

“I just don’t want to feel like this anymore,” Jack says quietly into Connor’s thin t-shirt.

Connor wishes he was a better person, he wishes he knew what to say, but he isn’t, and he doesn’t have the words. So, he just rubs Jack’s back until he can coax him back into bed and holds him tight.

Something’s off from then on. Connor tries to chalk it up to Jack preparing to return to pro golf, but deep-down Connor knows that something in Jack has shifted.

“Nice hat,” Jack snorts when Connor emerges for breakfast one day.

“Bobby sent it to me,” Connor explains. Connor took it as a peace offering after breaking down and admitting that he and Jack were seeing each other and kind of living with each other. It didn’t go great, but Connor thinks he probably has Peter to thank for smoothing things over with Connor’s people for both of both his and Jack’s sakes. “Jack Eichel: the Comeback, Phase I,” Connor tries to joke, but immediately stops when he sees the pained look on Jack’s face. “What I’m not allowed to wear your famous silhouette or what?”

“No, you are—”

“Jack, come one – what’s up? You know you can tell me anything.”

“I’m just nervous about next weekend, is all,” Jack explains into his eggs.

Connor can tell it’s a half truth, but he chooses not to call him on it. “You’re ready, and Matt’s pretty excited to be back on the bag, too.”

That makes Jack smile a little wistfully. “Yeah, I guess I’m just anxious to get started. Once I get out there, I’ll feel better I’m sure.”

“Okay,” Connor agrees. “I’m heading to the gym, and then the course. I have therapy later too. I’ll see you later?”

“Mhm,” Jack agrees not looking up. “I’m thinking about burgers for dinner. What do you think?”

“Sounds good,” Connor says kissing him on the cheek.

He tries to put it out of his mind, but he carries the feeling with him that Jack’s been hiding something – something big from him for a while.

His sports psychologist is a sweet, but slightly terrifying 40-something woman. She’s firm with him and direct. He knows they’re probably supposed to be talking about golf and how he can get the mental side of his game right, but they spend most of his sessions talking about other things in his life: Dylan, Jack, his sponsors, and even his parents and some of the pressure he faced growing up once he became kinda a big deal.

It makes Connor realize that the problems he’s had with his mental health and the mental side of golf was probably brewing for a long time – it just took Augusta to bring it out of him.

“It’s frustrating because I know something’s wrong, but he won’t talk to me about it,” Connor’s telling Margot after replaying their morning discussion. “He has nightmares where he wakes up screaming, and he’ll barely mention them afterward. He never talks about the accident, and barely even acknowledges that a few years ago he almost lost everything – and I just – I have no idea how much it’s still affecting him.”

“Well, have you asked him?” she asks simply.

“I—” Connor starts to say because of course he has, but then when he thinks about it, he snaps his jaw shut.

Connor loathes confrontation. He hates making people uncomfortable. He hates starting anything even closely resembling drama. But he realizes his need to keep the peace has resulted in him avoiding to really getting to know his boyfriend and trying to get him to open up. “I tried once, but he wasn’t very receptive, and then—”

“And then you were too afraid that he was going to shut you down or start a fight, so you never tried again,” Margot finishes when he trails off.

Connor swallows, “Uh, yeah.”

“You know how we’ve talked about how important it is to be honest with yourself and your own expectations? How it’s imperative to not lie to yourself about your own feelings, your own wants and needs?”

“Sure,” Connor says because that’s something he’s really trying to work on. He needs to stop compartmentalizing his feelings from everything else.

“Well, in relationships the same thing holds true. It’s important to be honest with your partner, and engage them, especially when they’ve gone through a traumatic event. It sounds like Jack’s scared of talking about it. Scared of the memories. But you can’t know that unless you ask him and offer him support.”

Connor goes back to Jack’s condo determined to just have a conversation with Jack and give him the same support that he’s given Connor over the last several months; it’s what Jack deserves.

Jack’s on speaker phone when Connor lets himself into the Condo.

“Pat, seriously – I don’t want the fanfare – I don’t want – I just want to play golf, okay? I don’t want to draw attention to anything,” he’s telling, who Connor thinks is his financial planner.

“Look, Jack, the numbers are tight. The promo and the Nike campaign could make you some serious money. It could get back everything you lost—”

“I didn’t lose it!”

“Okay, gave away, Jack. You gave it away!”

“Fuck you, Pat. Fuck you,” Jack mutters and hangs up on him.

Connor clears his throat a few seconds later just so Jack knows he’s there and doesn’t get startled.

“Oh shit – how much – sorry I didn’t mean for you to hear that,” Jack mumbles turning bright red.

Connor blinks at him, “Why are you yelling at your financial planner?”

“I wasn’t yelling, per se—”

“Jack!”

“Fine, I just – you know money’s been kind of tight, and he—”

“Jack, seriously. Whatever it is, you can tell me. All the lying and the half-truths—”

“I’m not lying!” Jack interjects, and Connor swallows feeling like the conversation’s already gotten away from him.

“Okay,” he backs off slightly but remembers what he and Margot talked about earlier. “What’s going on, then? Why are you being so evasive?”

“You don’t fucking understand, Connor,” he grumbles shaking his head.

“I—” Connor starts.

“Everything’s always been so easy for you. The worst thing in your life has been dropping out of the top 10 in the World Golf Rankings after an average season, and even after that you’d been stewing and sad and acting like your life is over. News flash, Davo, golf isn’t that fucking important.”

Connor blinks feeling the emotion start to build in his throat. He knows Jack’s just saying that stuff to deflect from Connor’s questions, but it still really fucking hurts. “How – after everything – how can you just reduce everything to that?”

“Connor,” it’s seen a long time since Connor’s heard Jack this angry, maybe since college or that time he missed the cut at the PGA by a tiebreaker. “You can’t even see your own fucking privilege. You’re a golf prodigy. People have been comparing you to Tiger and Sid since you were like 12. You had a red carpet rolled out for you. No one ever doubted that you’d make it, except maybe you. The most adversity you’ve ever faced in your entire life is fucking up the Masters and then skidding for a few months, which honestly wasn’t even that bad. You were in contention at The Open, and everything. And all you could do is whine and complain and say you hated golf and blah blah blah woe is me. Some people have real fucking problems, okay? Not everyone gets to walk around with a silver spoon in their mouths complaining about a game.”

It stings. It stings a lot. Connor knows there’s some truth to it. He knows that he was in his own head, and that there are worse things, but he – part of his mental health issues made it hard for him to find that perspective, and he’s only now learning how to put it behind him and understand that golf doesn’t dictate his reality. It hurts that Jack thinks all those things and doesn’t acknowledge that Connor’s trying to change.

“I’m going to bed,” he says throwing his hands in the air when Connor doesn’t answer and leaves Connor standing in the middle of the living room trying not to cry.

He eventually makes himself a sandwich and thinks about just falling asleep on the couch but decides that he won’t give Jack the satisfaction. He didn’t do anything wrong. He just asked Jack to be honest with him.

When he wakes up the next morning, Jack’s sitting up in bed his hand slowly combing through Connor’s long offseason hair. He slows his hand when he realizes Connors awake and then retracts it like he’s been burned. “Sorry,” he mutters.

Connor just stares at him not fulling understanding if he’s apologizing for touching him after they had a fight or what.

“I—” Jack starts and stops, and Connor can tell he’s trying to psych himself up to say whatever’s next. “I had PTSD. I mean, I have PTSD. Still, from the accident.”

Connor sits all the way up then and turns to look at him fully because he doesn’t really know what to make of that.

“I’m so sorry about yesterday. I said all that shit, and I didn’t mean it – not really. Like you said, we all have our shit, and it’s so unfair to trivialize what you’ve gone through and compare it to other shit, y’know? I was so out of line.”

“Okay,” Connor says trying to make sense of what Jack just told him. “Can you – can you explain it a little more?”

Jack nods slowly blowing out a long breath searching for words. “I don’t know how much you know about what happened or like how much was really reported, but I was in a coma for I think like 4 or 5 days. I was so out of it; I really don’t know. But, when I finally woke up in the hospital, the only way I can describe it is like I felt like I was living in a movie, and I was just like having flashbacks to seeing the semi’s headlights out of the corner of my eye and trying to swerve and hearing the crunch of bones and the weight of the car and the seatbelt and—” he takes a deep breath. “and I couldn’t really parse out what was real and what wasn’t most of the time.

“When I went to rehab after getting discharged it wasn’t just for all the physical injuries, it really was mostly because they were afraid I was going to hurt myself because I was so disconnected from reality. And I was just in this tunnel of trauma and I couldn’t escape the thoughts.”

“Oh Jack—” Connor says for lack of anything else, rubbing Jack’s back trying to just let him know he’s here and he’s not going anywhere.

“And I – I mean it eventually got better, right. As I got stronger physically and my concussion healed and everything, and I was able to get up and walk and all the therapy, my symptoms really subsided. I felt like me, and I wasn’t really even having nightmares that much anymore, and then I went home – back to my old house by Noah’s and my parents came for a while, and I started training again trying to rehab to play on Tour, and I—fuck—

“I felt so lucky, right? I knew I was so lucky to be alive, but I don’t really think I appreciated it. I was just thinking about when I would get my full range of motion back so I can go out and hit my driver. I just thought, y’know dodged that bullet, and now I get to go back to my life. I was so fucking stupid; I wasn’t ever going to be able to go back to my life.

“I didn’t even ask the whole first 6 months what happened to the driver of the truck. I never asked because I was so wrapped up in everything that had happened to me, and I—” he breaks off again tears rolling and Connor reaches over to the bedside table to get him a tissue.

“Eventually, I read some of my press because I wanted to know what the press were saying about my comeback, and I found out that he was completely paralyzed in the accident, and not only that, he was severely brain-damaged and would be for the rest of his life.

“I was out here worried about if I was going to be able to hit my driver 320 again, and this guy all but lost his life, and it shattered me. It completely and utterly shattered my life. My PTSD symptoms came back and were probably even worse than before. I wasn’t sleeping. I wasn’t eating. Sometimes, I would get up in the middle of the night and walk down the street to Noah’s house and just sit in his backyard for literally no reason other than I turned into a zombie.

I stopped doing my rehab completely. I didn’t even look at a golf club for almost a year, and everyone in my life thought I was going to kill myself. I thought I might too.”

“Jack—” Connor whispers pulling him into his lap allowing himself to cry too.

“I—” Jack says biting his lip. “I just – I couldn’t get past the guilt. The guilt knowing that I survived and this guy’s life was basically over.”

“Jack, you have to know it wasn’t your fault. I mean he hit you – it was an accident.”

“Yeah, it’s one thing to know that intellectually, it’s another thing for that to substantively matter to your brain and your PTSD. And, so I just went on like that – barely able to keep my head above water, and then for whatever reason, I found out where this guy lived, and I drove past. I don’t even know why – but I just had this compulsion to do it, so I did it

“There were two little girls playing in the yard – and I just – fuck – I just couldn’t not do something. So I called Pat, and I liquidated a shit ton of my assets, and I sold my house, and I took the money and renovated his house so that it was wheelchair accessible and that he had everything he needed for his wife to be able to properly care for him. I put money aside for caregivers and any future expenses they might have. And, then I set up college funds for their kids.”

“Jack—”

“It didn’t change anything. It didn’t make anything better, but I just thought that if I could have a positive effect on their current reality and had the resources to do it, then I needed to.

“I think part of me was still an asshole that thought that maybe doing all that would fix me, but it didn’t, of course. So, I checked myself into an impatient facility and gutted it out there for six more months, until I could finally, finally breathe without feeling like the world was going to crush me.”

“Jack—"

“And even when things were looking up, I swore off golf because I think part of me associated it with all the shit that didn’t matter to me anymore. It was too ingrained in the selfish part of me, which I now realize was stupid and it was just the depression and everything talking. That’s why I didn’t come back to the Tour – I’ve been physically ready for a while – but emotionally? I wasn’t.

“That’s why I’m not stoked about the hats and the Nike shit and whatever. I survived a car crash and now I’m going attempt to play golf, and it feels so insignificant to the challenges that real people face each day. I just – I never wanted to be back in that place I was in right before everything came crashing down – valuing golf over everything else.”

“But,” Connor says kissing the side of Jack’s head wiping at his tears gently. “You did survive a lot, you have to see that, babe. You’ve overcome a lot to be able to get back out there and do what you love. You’re not curing cancer, sure – but that doesn’t mean that it’s not a great accomplishment for you. It doesn’t have to be a competition.”

“I know,” Jack sniffles letting Connor take most of his weight settling himself against Connor’s chest. “And, I am proud of myself. I’m proud of overcoming my mental health challenges, and I’m proud at the work I’ve done to be a better person. But, I just – I don’t know if I want other people to monetize it – it just feels – I dunno – disingenuous.”

Connor understands where he’s coming from. The money side of golf has always been something that Connor hasn’t wanted to deal with. So, he’s let Bobby and Jim, his own financial planner, deal with it, and Connor just sticks with playing golf. It’s easier that way. “If it makes you uncomfortable, then don’t do the video and tell Nike to cool it with the hats. But, I think the hats at least are a cool throwback to the person you used to be – that kid in the Duke blue hitting bombs into hazards and then coming back and making double eagle on the next hole. That kid, who had so much confidence and so much sass and would tell the media to literally fuck off if they got too close to Noah when he was trying to hit at NCAAs. That kid was a good person, he just didn’t have the perspective you have now. And I think it’s important to celebrate the person you were, and the person you’ve become because there’s no Jack Eichel: the Comeback, without the Jack Eichel who rose the ranks playing golf on public courses in suburban Boston.”

“I—” Jack stops. “I’ve never thought of it like that.”

Jack’s off for a little bit after their conversation, but a few days later he seems like he’s finally settled – like he realizes that he told Connor the one thing he keeps hidden away from everyone, and he still didn’t run.

There’s a shift in their relationship for sure. Before, it was almost like the secrets and the things they hadn’t aired between them left a wedge – like one of them was always waiting, holding their breath waiting for the other shoe to drop. But now, Connor feels like they both think they’re for real.

He’s always known that Jack was an emotional, tactile guy. He was always throwing an arm around Noah or his other friends or hugging guys on the course, or whatever. Apparently, any reservation that he had about touching Connor in private or public is now completely gone, and he can’t keep his hands to himself.

They’re sitting outside eating lunch at the clubhouse a few days before Jack’s leaving for Ohio for the first tournament for Q School. Apparently, Connor got ketchup on his face because Jack just grins at him and takes his thumb and gets the spot before Connor can even contemplate what’s happening. He completely squirms under the attention. But Jack just laughs, leaning forward to kiss the bridge of his nose. “You’re cute.”

Connor’s kind of embarrassed but mostly very pleased.

Jack’s a hurricane packing his shit for the tournament running around the condo trying to make sure he has everything and all the right stuff for his sponsors to photograph him in.

Connor just laughs, “Damn, Eichs, is this your first rodeo?”

“Shut up,” he bitches. “It’s been a while for me, and I didn’t make a list like an idiot.”

Eventually, they get into the car, and Connor does him a service and rechecks his gear to make sure he didn’t accidently leave anything behind.

It’s harder than he thought to leave Jack at the airport and not come with. But the Tour’s starting soon and even though Connor’s not making his first start for several weeks, it’s time for him to dial in his preparation. He needs to go to Arizona and check his house and work with Randy to finetune everything, and make sure he takes care of all of his sponsor obligations. But Connor still wants to come and support Jack, even though Jack admitted that it would only make him more nervous. So, he promised to stay away and just watch it on TV.

“Good luck,” Connor says pulling Jack in tight as they stand in the departure lane like assholes.

“Thanks,” Jack says smiling at him shouldering his bag. Jack leans in to kiss him before turning to the door. “Love you. I’ll call you when we get to the hotel,” and with that he disappears into the crowd.

Jack Eichel told him he loved him and disappeared. Classic.

He gets on his own flight to Arizona the next day, and it’s weird because normally landing in the Phoenix airport feels like going home, and now? He just feels a sense of dread.

The first three days he’s in town he’s expecting Dylan to see his car out in the driveway and come over, since he lives down the street. He’s anticipating it so much he can barely think about anything else. But then he remembered that Dylan’s trying to get his Tour card, and that he’s in Ohio with Jack. Fuck, he’s such a self-centered asshole. Holy shit.

He goes out to dinner on Thursday night with Leon and Nursey, a welcome distraction to refreshing the leaderboard to see where Jack and Dylan sit after the first round.

“The parodical son returns!” Darnell exclaims when Connor finds their table in the bar.

“Shut up,” Connor complains rolling his eyes fondly. He missed his guys a lot.

“I can’t believe you abandoned us to spend most of the offseason with Eichs and Hanny, man. Cold,” Drat complains sipping his beer.

“You’ve chosen your girlfriend over us before, so I followed my boyfriend; sue me,” Connor laughs.

“Ah, so we’re calling him that now,” Nursey says pointedly.

“Uh yeah?” Connor replies off-handedly dipping his fry into Drat’s sea of ketchup. “Were we not before?”

“I dunno, man. You were really quiet and weird about the whole thing. Honestly, you’ve been crazy weird since, y’know—”

“The Masters. You can say it, you know. It’s not a dirty word.”

“Yeah since that,” Nursey confirms staring at Connor a little like a puzzle.

Connor agrees with him, and he sees it now when he really couldn’t see it before. “Yeah, I know. I’ve turned a corner though. This is Davo 2.0. Happy. Having fun on the golf course, and not taking it too seriously. It’s just golf. The sun will rise no matter what we do on the course at the end of the round.”

Leon smiles at him clapping him on the back, “Happy to hear it, bud. It got pretty dark there for a while.”

“Have you talked to Dylan?” Darnell asks because it’s the million-dollar question.

“I will, after he gets back from Q School,” Connor assures. “It’s too important not to do in person.”

“So, your swing looks great, Connor. Smooth, exact – and you seem happy, kiddo,” Randy says the next day when they meet up to do some final tune-ups for the season. They’ve been sending videos back and forth and Connor was working with one of his colleagues in Florida, but it’s not the same as an in-person session.

“Thanks – I feel like working on everything – taking a step away from golf and really thinking about why I’m playing and who I am off the course has made everything really come into perspective. I’m just having fun playing again. It feels new.”

Randy claps him on the back, “We’re all proud of you, Connor. And happy that you’ve finally found some balance in your life. You and Jack seem happy.”

“We are,” Connor confirms smiling. “He’s the best.”

Randy just laughs and mumbles something about being young and in love.

Jack doesn’t win the Nationwide Children's Hospital Championship, but he does play well and finishes in the top-3. Dylan, on the other hand, is playing like a man-possessed and even though he’s probably going to get his Tour card based on the regular season money list alone, from what Connor can tell, he’s out to make it a clean sweep and wins the entire tournament.

Connor itches to call him, talk to him, and tell him he’s so fucking proud of him. But he knows it would be inappropriate and Dylan doesn’t need the distraction. Connor doesn’t need to stand in his way more than he already has.

As Jack and Dylan head to Boise for the second tournament, Connor tries to pack in most of his sponsorship obligations. He does a few commercials for Taylormade in Arizona before flying out to Oregon to shoot at Nike headquarters for the latter half of the week.

He wears his new Eichel cap because he can and it’s Nike, and Connor loves Jack, so why not?

“Nice hat,” Kerry comments as he and James, two of the Nike golf reps greet him in the lobby of the building. “Those haven’t even come out yet.”

“I know a guy,” Connor jokes shaking both their hands.

“Who would have thought in a few months Jack Eichel would go from not being heard from for years to caddying for you to maybe earning his pro card again,” Kerry continues as they show Connor around some of the new facilities.

“It’s pretty inspirational. Y’know, Jack’s been through a lot,” he says back seriously.

“No doubt about it,” James replies this time. “We just wish he’d want more people to know it.”

Connor shrugs, “He just wants to play golf, and he’s damn good at it. So,” Connor shrugs. “Just let Jack be Jack. That’s enough of a story.”

“Fair enough,” James says easily.

“I do have an idea, though – to make the hat more of an homage to current Jack, if you’re interested.”

Kerry nods smiling, and Connor thinks if this were a movie, he should have animated money signs in his eyes. “Sure, what did you have in mind?

Dylan goes back-to-back and Jack finishes 5th in Boise. Connor invites some of the guys over to watch, and the excitement in the air is something that Connor hasn’t experienced since team competitions in college.

“Stromer, Stromer, Stromer!” Brinksy chants as they watch the highlights of Dylan winning for the 30th time. “That’s my boy!”

Connor doesn’t cry, but he feels so fucking emotional. His best friend is finally making his dreams come true, and he almost can’t believe it. He can’t believe he almost stood in his way and prevented it from happening. He tries to ignore the guilt in the pit of his stomach the rest of the night.

He goes to Indiana for the final tournament, the Korn Ferry Tour Championship. Because Jack didn’t play any other tour events, he’ll probably need to win out to get his Tour exemption for the next year. But, if he finishes in the top 3 with the 1,000,000 purse, he’ll probably be able to get his Tour card, regardless.

Dylan’s sitting pretty, and even if he gets cut, he’s going to earn his Tour card and will be playing on Tour with them in a few weeks. It’s kind of surreal to Connor, if anything.

He’s in his hotel room Saturday night, texting Jack who’s complaining about them sleeping apart when they’re literally in the same hotel, when there’s a knock on the door.

“Stromer—”

Dylan does not look happy. “Fuck you,” he pauses looking away from Connor pushing himself inside the room. “Damn that felt good.”

“How did you—”

“I got your room number from, Eichs,” Dylan says shrugging. “I can’t believe you’re dating. I did not see that one coming, I—”

“I’m sorry, Dyls. I’m so fucking sorry,” Connor says at once because he feels like if he lets another minute go by with Dylan in the same room and he doesn’t say it, he’ll burst.

“Great,” Dylan laughs sourly rolling his eyes pacing and in front of Connor. “Why didn’t you reach out and tell me that – why did you freeze me out – why – we were best friends since we were 18 – fucking Otters for life, Connor. What happened to that?”

“I mean—” Connor’s practiced this conversation in the shower at least a dozen times, and he still can’t find the right words. “I – everything you said to me that day was absolutely true and valid. I was being a dick. I was in my own head, and I was terrible to be around, and I – you were right, Dylan. But, I just – I wasn’t in the headspace to hear it. I wasn’t. It was just easier to freeze you out, and then it just kind of snowballed out of control—”

“What do you mean? If you were sorry, all you had to do was say so, Connor. You didn’t need to build it into this thing—”

“I know, I know – but I just – overthinking is kind of my thing, okay. And I – the longer we went without talking, the more embarrassed I felt about the situation and the more fear grew that you weren’t going to forgive me – and so I felt like if we never talked, I didn’t have to have the confirmation that you hated me.”

Dylan doesn’t say anything for a minute and when Connor looks up, he looks like he just dunked his tee shot into a water hazard. “I could never, ever hate you, Connor. We’ve been through too much together. I have way too much respect for the person you are.”

“I—” he takes a deep breath and he’s never really had this conversation with anyone other than his therapist, “I just – I hated myself. I didn’t forgive myself for what I said to you, and so I just – projected that onto you, and I’m sorry. I was self-destructing and you were in my path of destruction.”

“Oh, shit, Connor, bud—”

“I was having a very public breakup with golf, and I couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t handle falling out of love with golf because I built it into everything – all of my self-worth was wrapped up in golf. But, after taking a step back and realizing – that I have people in my life like you who don’t give a shit if I ever win a tournament again as long as I’m happy – it started changing my perspective on what’s important, Dyls.”

Dylan crosses the room with two giant Dylan steps and scoops Connor into his arms like he would when they were freshmen, and Connor would get homesick and sit in his dorm with O Canada on blast and watch the Leafs.

“You hurt my feelings a lot,” Dylan admits. “And I think for a while I didn’t want to forgive you, but it’s like – having you in my life is so much more important than any argument that we’ve ever had.”

“You want to eat dinner? Room service?” Connor asks.

“You’re not eating with Jack?” Dylan asks slowly.

Connor shrugs, “I think he’ll understand if I say I’m having dinner with you.”

Dylan smiles. “I know you never liked Jack in college, but I always did. I’m happy to be right about everything—”

“Shut up—” Connor shoves at him tossing him the room service menu.

“Did you hate him because you had a crush on him? Because I really need to work on reading you better if that was the case.”

“No,” Connor rolls his eyes. “And for the record, he hated me. I was indifferent.”

“Sure,” Dylan replies laughing. “He’s a good guy, y’know? I was really concerned about you when you were burning through all those caddies, and when I heard Bobby had him come out to be on your bag, I texted him, and he was great about it. He let me know you were okay and asked for advice on how to get you to play better. He’s a really good caddie, too.”

That makes Connor pause, “He did?”

“Yeah,” Dylan shrugs. “Both of us just wanted to see you succeed.”

Connor has to hug him again. “I missed the shit out of you, Stromer.”

Dylan just laughs. “You too. A summer of just Brinksy was boring. We needed our third musketeer.” He pauses eyeing something on the bedside table. “Oh shit, is that the new Eichel hat? That’s such a good idea! Nike does it again.”

“Yeah,” Connor smiles grabbing it and tossing it to Dylan. “I think if he wins tomorrow, they’ll probably drop them immediately.

“Sick—” Dylan pauses again. “Oh, this is different, right—”

“Yeah, that was my idea, actually when I was in Beaverton to do a commercial recently. It’s like the hat is an homage to old Jack, but the saying is new Jack – well the new version of Jack. It has that Jack sass, y’know?”

“Can I have one?”

Connor laughs but he doesn’t see why not. Dylan hasn’t signed with an apparel sponsor yet but because Connor wore Nike, Dylan had a shit ton and that’s mostly what he’s been wearing all year.

“Yeah, they gave me a couple. Hold on,” Connor says crawling off the bed and going to look for his suitcase. He eventually finds it and tosses it to Dylan who puts it on over his curls.

“So, like Jack’s not going to yell at me when I show up with this tomorrow for the final round, right?”

“You’re playing against each other for the Championship – are you sure it’s the best time to wear it?”

“He’s my friend, okay? And like he’s been through some shit, and I’m happy he’s making a comeback. Gotta support.”

It’s just like Dylan to make everything sound so simple. “He may yell at you, but just because he’ll be flattered, and he hates positive emotions.”

Connor’s never met Jack’s parents before. It’s awkward, Connor’s not going to lie. Jack’s been out to them forever, or at least since he was like 10 or 11, and in high school and college, Jack went through a series of what he calls an “intense cycle of serial monogamy.” But, since he turned pro and the accident, Jack hasn’t dated anyone seriously, or really anyone at all, for several years. So, Connor understands that his family’s a little apprehensive, to say the least.

The Eichels are louder than most golf families, probably because they’re not really a golf family. Jack wasn’t a Country Club kid like Connor or Dylan or Noah. He grew up sneaking onto public courses and later getting jobs inside pro shops and forecaddying, so he could get rounds for free. He didn’t even have a real coach until he was in high school.

So, the Eichels don’t seem to care much for the formality of golf. Jack’s dad is wearing a Patriot’s polo, and both his mom and sister aren’t wearing collared shirts at all. Connor likes them, though. They seem more authentic than a lot of the other guys’ families, if he’s being honest. He doesn’t know if that’s just them – the New England, American mindset, or if it’s because they’re just happy to see Jack out there doing what he loves.

Watching Jack and Dylan play in the final pairing is kind of weird. He’s now played a ton of golf with both of them, but separately. Their games are more alike than either of theirs is compared to Connor’s. Dylan’s now a longer hitter than Jack, but Jack’s still has the innate aggression of someone who grew up driving greens at junior tournaments and winning long-drive competitions.

They both love to talk, and as they walk up to the first tee box, they’re both chattering away. Connor wonders idly what they’re talking about. Is Jack chirping Dylan, and is Dylan trying to steer him toward talking about the weather or what he had for dinner?

Jack eventually starts tugging at the hat on Dylan’s head waving his arms around like crazy, and they’re both laughing at something. Connor can hear the camera flashes and knows that it’s a picture that’s probably going to be plastered all over, no matter who wins. This is probably the most high-profile Q School final in a while.

As they wait for their tee time to be called, Jack’s face turns a little more serious, and he turns to Dylan and pulls him into a hug. They talk into each other’s shoulders for a minute, before clapping one another one the back. If Connor wasn’t emotional before, he’s a goner now.

Connor’s not going to lie, he doesn’t watch a lot of golf in his free time. He lives it; he doesn’t need to go home and surround himself with it. He’ll watch his own rounds or rounds from guys who are playing particularly well, but he’s not the kind of guy who’s going to watch the rest of a tournament in his hotel room after getting cut. This is probably the first time he’s been to a golf tournament he wasn’t competing in in over 10 years.

It’s weird. It’s nerve-wracking. He spends all of the front 9 and the first few holes of the back chatting with Jack’s family, signing autographs, and taking pictures with fans. A bunch ask who he’s cheering for – he knows him being here and two of his former caddies facing off is a news story. Not to mention throwing in Jack’s comeback and Dylan’s long road to get his Tour card.

He just smiles, takes the picture, and says he’s just hoping to see some good golf. It’s lame, but whatever. Media training and all that. Not everyone can have the Jack Eichel soundbites. Connor knows who he is.

However, by the time they get to the 15th hole, everyone seems to get that he needs to be left alone. He can feel the tension in his shoulders and back, and he gets why people love watching golf when it’s tight like this with two really compelling, yet, competing narratives. Jack’s dad sticks close and murmurs commentary to Connor just to fill the silence and break some of the tension.

“They’re both playing well, son,” he tells him eventually. “Relax.”

Jack’s up by one stroke going to 17, a chippy par 3 with water on either side. It’s probably the most dangerous hole on the course. If you dunk your tee shot, suddenly you’re lying two already and watching your lead slip away.

Jack has the honors and hits a nice draw right at the pin. It’s probably his best tee shot of the day, sticking it maybe 7 feet from the pin.

Dylan shoves Jack smiling at him when his ball stops rolling. Connor can’t hear what they’re saying, but apparently Dylan’s taken up to chirping Jack back.

Dylan hits an equally good-looking shot but gets a better bounce from the ridge on the left side of the green and rolls it in to maybe about a 3-footer.

“Stromer, Jesus, man,” Connor can hear Jack say as he and Dylan walk towards the green their caddies trailing after them.

They both hole their putts for birdie, and they go into the last hole, a relatively short par 4, with Jack one up. Connor can barely look as they follow to the next hole.

Even though Jack’s one stroke ahead, Dylan definitely has the advantage on 18. He’s longer and with the relatively straight and wide fairway, he can probably afford to hit driver and see what he can do.

Jack just has to play smart. Hit his tee shot into the fairway so he has a good look at the green, and make Dylan do something special to challenge him.

Jack still has the honors, and he and Matt seem to be having a discussion over how to approach the hole. In the end, it looks like he chooses to hit his driving iron, which Connor thinks is the right play. It’s a club that he always hits solid, and the likelihood that he’s going to miss the fairway with it is almost zero.

He hammers it straight down the fairway and leaves himself about 120 to the pin, which Connor knows from playing with him all summer is one of his more comfortable distances. He’s in a good spot.

Dylan does exactly what Connor thinks he has to do being one behind. He barely even discusses it with his caddie. He just takes Otto off his driver and hands it back staring down the length of the fairway. No fear.

Dylan crushes his driver, as always. He’s got the adrenaline going so he pulls it slightly but it’s still going to be a good shot. When it lands on the left side of the fairway about 50 yards from the flag, a weird hush comes over the gallery.

Jack’s dad whistles beside Connor as they follow the group towards the green. “We got ourselves a match, kiddo.”

Jack’s out, so he takes his second shot first. Jack likes to be able to put the pressure on, so Connor knows it’s a comfortable position for him to be in. He hits a little fade into the green. It doesn’t look great in the air, if Connor’s being honest, and can feel the tense of the crowd when the ball lands about 30 feet from the hole with a completely downhill lie. It’s obviously not what he wanted to do, but Jack seems fine. He shrugs when Matt hands him his putter, and they walk towards the green chatting like Jack’s Tour card isn’t on the line.

Dylan has to make birdie here if he wants to have a chance to tie it up and go to a playoff. Jack’s just opened the door, and Dylan needs to knock it close to put the pressure on him to hit his 30-footer.

Dylan’s been hitting his wedges solid all weekend, and as soon as he hits this one Connor knows it’s going to be close. It spins back a little when it hits a ridge, and he has probably a 7-8-footer for birdie.

When they were in college, to say Jack wasn’t the best putter would be an understatement. He got suspended from ACC play for two matches when he broke his putter over his knee on the 18th green when they were sophomores and he five-putted the hole after crossing back and forth across the green long, short, long. He’s come a long way since then, and he had to, to be a successful Tour pro, but then also when he had to rework his game and find new strengths because of his knee.

It’s a tough putt. Downhill with two different breaks left. Jack and Matt take their time reading the putt and talking about how he needs to set up. He wants to try to hole it for the outright win, sure. But, it’s far from a guaranteed two-putt. If he blasts it past the hole or leaves it way too short, he could be in trouble, and since Dylan’s in there to about 8 feet, Jack’s gotta be thinking the worst he’s going to do is two-putt, but he’s probably going to birdie the hole. Jack needs to two-putt to stay in it for the playoff.

Connor has a lot of conflicting feelings about the whole thing. He wants both of them to get their Tour cards. And, so Jack winning is really the only way to guarantee it’s going to happen, if not, he’s going to have to wait to see how the money list and everything shakes out. But, at the same time, running the table and going back-to-back-to-back at Q School and winning the $1,000,000 purse here would really help Dylan not only financially, but he’d finally get some decent sponsors coming into his first PGA tour season. Jack already having played on the Tour has the brand support that Dylan just doesn’t have. Nike and Callaway would be dumb to drop him after today.

It happens in slow-motion. Jack hits the putt, and even though Connor’s not nearly close enough to hear anything, he does. He hears an audible _thunk_ as Jack makes contact with the ball. Usually, from this vantage point, he’d be able to tell if it’s going in right as its hit, but with the funky break, he really has no idea until he can hear it hit the bottom of the cup.

“No fucking way!” He hears Dylan’s voice above the roar of the crowd. “Eichs finally learned to putt!”

Jack and Matt hug, and Connor’s pushed towards the green by Jack’s dad who bear hugs Jack immediately, while Connor turns towards Dylan.

“Proud of you,” Connor says suddenly nervous for his response.

“Come here,” Dylan says opening his arms. “It was an incredible match. I can’t believe we’re both getting full exemptions.”

The rest is a blur. Jack’s presented with a very large trophy, and he and Connor don’t kiss in front of the cameras but stand close enough to breathe each other in where there’s little to be disconcerted about the nature of their relationship.

Dylan tops this year’s Korn Ferry money list and gets a nice big fat cheque, as well.

Peter drags Connor to the press conference asking him “for one favor, Connor, please. It’ll be funny.” Connor owes Peter. They both know it. He had the nicest, measured response to hearing that Jack and Connor were together. “Well, I won’t say I saw it coming, because I didn’t,” he’d said on the conference call. “But, I’m very happy for you boys. I hope you make one another happy.” It was a nice change to the silence on the end of the line and Bobby muttering, “Oh, Connor.” Because, yes it was just another thing on a list of Connor’s growing transgressions over the last year.

So, Connor agrees to do Peter a favor and goes to the press conference following the tournament. Jack and Dylan are sitting next to each other, looking both incredibly exhausted but happy. They’re laughing, covering the mics so no one can hear whatever it is they’re chirping each other about.

“Alright, we want to keep this relatively short so these two guys can get back to their families. Maureen, if you want to start us out—”

Most of the questions are routine about how they thought the round went and the Championship in general. They ask Jack about the changes to Q School and about his comeback. They ask Dylan what it was like to finally get his Tour card after so many attempts.

Eventually, Peter pokes him in the back. “It’s your turn.”

Connor rolls his eyes but laughs a little raising his hand.

“Uh,” the moderator stutters, “Connor?”

“Uh, yeah – just have a quick question for both Dylan and Jack.”

They both squint at him like he’s insane and turn to look at each other like they’re looking into the camera on The Office.

“I just wanted to know which of you guys is going to find me a new caddie? Because I can’t seem to keep one for very long.”

That gets the press room going. There’s a lot of laughter and some applause, but mostly people are looking at Jack and Dylan as they exchange a look to see who’s going to take the question.

“Well, Davo,” Jack says raising his eyebrows. “Sorry your caddies keep being better than you, man. It’s a tough break.”

Dylan laughs moving the mic towards himself. “Aw, Connor, man. Sorry we graduated, bud. I don’t know if you’ll find anyone else that’ll put up with you, but we’ll try to help you out.”

The press loves it and the chatter increases until the moderator calms everyone down and calls out the next guy. “Jim—”

“Yeah, Dylan just a few quick ones. What’s the logo on your hat?”

“Oh,” Dylan laughs pulling it off his head to look at it. “It’s the new/old version of the Eichel hat. Just wanted to support my friend’s comeback out there today. We might have been rivals in college, but we’ve always had a tremendous amount of respect for each other, and even though I wasn’t going to let up today, I support what he’s trying to do in his comeback.”

“What does it say on the side?”

Dylan smiles and Jack’s turning bright red and turning to look away. “Uh, it says ‘it’s a beautiful day to f-asterisk-asterisk-asterisk-asterisk some s-asterisk-asterisk-asterisk up.’”

That gets the press going again, “Jack, what does that mean?”

Jack’s red and looking down. He might like attention for his play, but Connor knows he doesn’t like talking about this. “It’s just like – I was fundamentality changed by being in that car wreck several years ago. And, I’m so lucky to be out here on the other side getting to do what I love to do. I know not everyone’s as lucky. So, yes this is a comeback – Phase I, now complete,” he laughs slightly. “But, I’m not that same person I was when I started on Tour when I was 21. That kid’s still in there; he’s a fighter, but I now have such a deeper appreciation for life and the beauty of what it means to live every day. So, I guess it’s like no matter what’s going on, when you wake up each day. It’s a beautiful day to go after it. It’s a beautiful day to pursue whatever it is you want to pursue, and it’s a fucking beautiful day to fuck some shit up.

It’s like – if I learned anything over the last few years is that not only is life incredibly short, it’s heartbreakingly finite. One day you’re here, and the next day you’re not. So, if you want to do something, do it. Change careers. Tell that person you haven’t, that you love them. Live each day knowing that you’ll never know when it’s going to be over. I just want to live with no regrets, and as long as I pursue what I want to, and I’m a good person along the way. I have fun, and I’m present in the moment, then that’s all I can ask for.”

“Wow,” Connor mutters to Peter as Jack gets a standing ovation from the usually very standoffish golf media. When he looks to Dylan, he has tears in his eyes.

“Kid’s amazing, isn’t he?” Peter says hugging Connor into his side.

“Yeah,” Connor agrees easily. Connor thinks, not for the first time, that can’t believe he gets to love that.

Connor gets a new caddie, Steve. He’s an older guy who was most recently out on the Champions Tour, when his guy decided he wasn’t going to play this year. He reminds Connor of his dad. He has the calm presence about him, and he spends most of their practice rounds talking about his daughters and his wife. It’s nice. He’s not Dylan, and he’s definitely not Jack, but he keeps Connor in the game and reminds him of what’s important.

Connor makes his first start of the season later than usual in the second week of November in Mexico. It’s always a low-scoring tournament and a fun one. Usually, a lot of the older guys bring their families and there’s a bunch kids running around the resort. Connor and Bobby decide it’s probably a good idea to start where the course is favorable to his game and that he knows fairly well so that he can start to rebuild his confidence in his tournament play. His confidence in his swing is better, but he still doesn’t know what it’s going to be like when he’s playing for something on Sunday. It’s been a while.

Connor feels like in just a year his life has totally shifted on its axis. When he won this event the year before, Dylan had been on his bag as always, and they’d really just done their thing. At that point, golf had been the thing he could always count on. No matter what was happening in his personal life, he’d always been able to count on golf to be there for him. To make him feel something.

But, since? He’s had to rework his relationship with golf. He still loved it, sure. Breathed it, even. Lived it. But he also knew that no matter what happened on the course, win or lose, his life wouldn’t change. Dylan would be there cheering him on. His parents, his brother, his grandparents, would all be in his corner whether he was first or just skidding trying to make the cut week in and week out. And of course, now, he had Jack. He had someone who loved him despite seeing him at his worst, despite seeing him fall apart week after week and retreat slowly into himself, and he loved him anyway. He loved him, in spite.

Golf didn’t have the power to change his mood anymore. It didn’t have the power to ruin his day, his week, or his year. Golf was something he did, and it didn’t have the power to change everything in Connor’s life anymore. He wouldn’t give it that power anymore.

That’s not to say he doesn’t think keeping to that is going to be difficult. He’s an introverted guy. He has a tendency to overthink and get in his own head and dwell on everything. But he has to try to really nip that toxic behavior in the bud before it starts to take over his life. He knows what it feels like now to be free from that, and even if he never wins another golf tournament again, he’d rather have a free mind than have to deal with that mental stress anymore. It’s just fucking golf, he constantly reminds himself. It’s fun.

He and Dylan play a practice round with Brinksy on Tuesday morning, and it feels a lot like college. It’s kind of surreal. Connor knows the course pretty well, so he doesn’t spend a lot of time taking extra shots or setting up scenarios. He and Steve chat about yardage and his personal setup because this is their first real tournament together, but other than that, he’s just hanging out with his two best friends shooting the shit like they were freshman and sophomores in college, and Brinksy would bitch that he’d never have a counting score. He’s come a long way. They all have.

He wins the tournament. He doesn’t just win, Jack will say later when they’re alone with tears in his eyes, he dominates. He leads wire to wire and never gives any other guy even a chance to climb back into the conversation.

Maybe a few months ago, Connor would have said it was a relief – that he proved to himself he could still perform at a high level and compete with the best. But, it’s not a few months ago, and Connor’s not relieved. He’s just happy. He’s happy he gets to do what he loves. He’s happy he and Dylan are Davo-and-Stromer, otters for life, again. He’s happy he’s found the person he’s going to spend the rest of his life with, no matter what. It’s simple. It’s so simple, it’s almost jarring.

He keeps winning. And winning. And winning. He keeps winning so much he can barely make sense of it. Like it’s kind of terrifying. A year ago, it would have sent him in a tailspin. A year ago, he doesn’t think he could have handled the success without starting to overthink and probably spiraling out control, if he’s being completely honest with himself. He always had this need to control every detail of his life. If he could make sense of it and control it, he could win. In retrospect, it was obviously a losing a mindset. A mindset that sent him down a path of absolute self-destruction.

He gets out in front of it this time. He continues to talk to Margot on the phone each week. It’s difficult, he’s not going to lie. It may be even more difficult to stay on top of his mental health when his life is going well, then when it wasn’t. Part of him thinks he doesn’t need to put in the work anymore. Part of him thinks he’s cured, but he knows that’s just a trap. He knows that eventually the extrinsic validation – shooting low rounds and winning tournaments will wane. No one plays well all season long. He’ll miss a cut eventually or shoot 10 over on a round. It’s inevitable. So, it’s important for him to understand that his worth isn’t rolled up in how well he does or doesn’t play golf.

They get into the thick of the season – the part of the year where days and weeks cease to have any meaning and every hotel room and golf course starts to look the same. They’re in Florida, taking a week off before the Player’s Championship the next week. Jack’s wandered off to go to the gym and see his PT to make sure his knee is holding up, so Connor’s taken the opportunity to just watch some TV and decompress by himself, when there’s a knock on Jack’s condo’s door.

He knows Noah went up to Bay Hill for the AP Invitational, and he usually doesn’t knock anyway. Just uses his key and enters without announcing himself. Maybe it was Matt? But he and Jack have been spending so much time together on Tour, Connor doesn’t think he would use some of his off days he could be with his family over here shooting the shit with them. He’s really at a loss because none of their other friends really come by unannounced.

It’s Stromer. Which is confusing in itself, because he’s supposed to be up in Bay Hill for the Invitational, as well.

“Hey, Dyls?” Connor says stepping back to let him in. “Are you okay? I thought—”

“Uh yeah, of course,” he says shrugging, but he doesn’t look okay.

“I thought you were playing this weekend?” Connor asks quietly showing Dylan into the living room and offering him a seat.

“Yeah, I am. Just got a rental and then I’ll head up there. It’s like a 2-and-a-half-hour drive. I just – I needed to talk to you about something,” he says sitting across from Connor on the loveseat.

Connor takes a deep breath. He has no idea what could be wrong. Was someone in his family sick? Was he sick? Was he hurt?

“I – I’ve loved playing on Tour for the first half of the season. It’s been great, really. But, I’m not sure it’s really what I want to do long-term,” he explains avoiding Connor’s eyes.

“What are you talking about, Stromer? I—”

“I think,” he swallows audibly. “Not everyone gets to achieve their dreams. Or, at least, maybe sometimes their dreams change or their dreams aren’t what they thought they would be.”

“I don’t understand,” Connor says trying to pick of Dylan’s train of thought, but he can’t. He can’t make sense of it. “Your dream was to play on Tour—”

“I know,” Dylan says nodding. “And – getting here made me realize, I still love playing golf, sure, but I like being on your bag more—”

Oh no. He’s got to shut this down immediately. “Dylan – it’s your first season, you’re not going to win everything the first time out. Give yourself some time to—”

“No,” he cuts Connor off. “It’s not that. I mean I’ve actually been really happy with the way I’ve been playing. I’ve been mostly making cuts and doing what I know how to do, but it’s just – it’s not the same, y’know? It’s not the same as being out there with you. Being on your team.”

“We’re still a team, Dyls. You and me, we’ll always be a team. Otters for fucking life,” Connor replies helplessly.

“Look, Connor,” he says looking up and meeting Connor’s eyes for the first time. “I think – I mean not everyone’s road to success looks the same – actually no one’s journey is the same. We all have different paths, and I just—” he blows out a breath. “I’ve accepted that maybe I’ll never win a PGA tour event, and that’s okay. I’m okay. I’m better than okay. I’m happy. I’m healthy. I have amazing people in my life, and for the last year I got to pursue that dream again, and it’s been amazing. But, I don’t – it’s not what I want anymore. It isn’t me, anymore. Just because you don’t get to achieve everything you wanted doesn’t mean you can’t be happy. You just pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and pursue new dreams just as passionately as before. That’s what I want to do now. Being a pro golfer isn’t everything to me, anymore, Davo. Jack’s really taught me that over the last year or so, and I – I have to be true to myself.”

Connor’s head is spinning. He can’t. He doesn’t understand this at all.

“I used to think I’d regret it if I didn’t give it another go trying to get on the Tour – y’know I’d always wonder what if? But, now I see – that wasn’t – that was just a distraction. Playing on the Tour has just solidified that I want to be a great caddie. I want to be on the bag with you every weekend. I’m going to be there, and we’re going win a major together, Davo, you and me.”

“Dylan – you’re not really making sense. You don’t have to give up any dream. You have an opportunity to pursue the first one. You don’t need a new dream.”

“I—” Dylan bites his lip. “Playing on Tour just isn’t important to me anymore. I did it. And it was amazing, but I’m ready to do what I know that I’m meant to do—”

“That doesn’t even make sense. You’ve worked so hard—”

“And I’ve worked hard to become a damn good caddie too – one of the best, if I do say so myself. I think I’m a much better caddie than I am a golfer, and that’s – that’s what my dream is. I want us to be a team on the course again, Connor.”

“I don’t—” Connor starts because he doesn’t want to be the reason Dylan looks back ten years from now and regrets not giving himself a full season on Tour.

“Just think about it, at least, okay?” Dylan says glancing at his watch. “I do have to get on the road if I want to be able to play a practice round, though.”

“I’ll think about it, I guess. But, I just – I think you’re selling yourself short here, Dylan. You don’t need me to be successful in your own right.”

“You’re not listening, Connor. I don’t need you. I know I don’t. But, I want to win with you. It’s better when we’re out there as a team,” he says, and he pulls Connor in to punctuate his point.

When they pull back Connor notices his hat for the first time. “What’s on your cap?” he says squinting. It’s a logo of some sort that he doesn’t recognize.

“Oh,” he turns a little red. “Nike just sent it to me after I signed. It was Eichs’ idea, actually. Payback for wearing his hat during the final, I’m sure.”

Dylan takes it off his head and hands it to Connor, who feels like he just got cross-checked by Charra. “I don’t—”

“It’s like a cartoon of Otto and Ollie,” Dylan explains like Connor doesn’t have eyes.

Jack would, is the thing. Everyone knows about the headcovers, but he and Dylan were kind of mum on what the story behind them were. Jack had begged Connor forever to tell him what dumb college kid shit led to them.

When he and Dylan started their junior years, their coach at Wake Forest called them into his office on their first official practice for the season to tell them they were starting the year at 1 and 2, respectively. Each year, he’d have the team leaders come up with a theme for the year, a saying or a mascot or something, and he posed the task to Connor and Dylan and told them to make it special because it was bound to be a special season.

They spit around a ton of ideas, and it wasn’t until Brinksy lamely suggested they make the theme “sharks out for blood” that something finally seemed right.

Dylan had snorted at the suggestion, “Nah, man we’re more like otters than sharks.”

Dylan, for whatever reason, was a marine biology major. He was obsessed with all things marine wildlife and would wax poetic about seals and sea lions for hours and hours during practice rounds and on the bus to-and-from tournaments. By that time, Connor had learned to tune it out.

Connor still to this day doesn’t know what made him entertain the idea, “Otters?”

“Yeah, I mean they’re not like scary or intimidating like sharks, sure. But, they’re a team-oriented animal. When one otter is resting or eating, it holds hands with another, so that it doesn’t float away. It’s like – sometimes, I have a shit round, and I always know you and Alex are there to pick me up and put up low numbers to cancel out mine. We’re always there to back each other up. We keep each other close, so we don’t have to do it alone.”

“I actually kind of like that,” Brinksy admitted finally. “And I always hate your weird marine animal bullshit.”

“It’s not weird!” Dylan had tried to fight.

It was a thing after that. They were a family of otters for the rest of the season, and it just seemed to fit. The guys gave him and Dylan shit about it. Calling them “mom and pop otter,” so they leaned into it, and after they went on to win NCAAs that year, they got Ollie and Otto and never looked back. Otters for life.

“They’re holding hands,” Connor comments fingering the hat.

“Yep, so the other one doesn’t get lost. They’re a team, even when one of them is doing more work than the other. It always evens out,” Dylan explains softly.

“I can’t believe Nike went for this,” Connor complains slightly.

Dylan shrugs, “Everyone’s always liked the matching headcovers. I do really have to go. Keep the hat. I have another one with my gear, and think about what I said okay?”

Connor nods, and Dylan doesn’t linger any longer. Just disappears the way he came, like he never even stopped by.

When Jack gets home, Connor’s out on the deck pacing trying to wrap his head around all of what Dylan had said. He’s scared, if he’s being honest. He’s so happy for Dylan, and he accepted that he was going to have to pursue his own Tour dreams without him, and he doesn’t want Dylan to regret giving up his own for the second time.

“Hey,” Jack says coming out on the deck kissing him softly and hitting the bill of his hat. “Nice hat, Davo.”

“You’re such a fucking troll,” Connor says back rolling his eyes.

Jack, the bastard, just grins and shrugs. “You love me. Did Bobby send it over?”

Connor shakes his head, “Dylan dropped by before he drove up to the tournament.”

That makes Jack pause. “What? Really?”

“He’s thinking about quitting the Tour,” Connor mutters throwing his hands in the air because the whole thing is ridiculous.

“Oh, so he finally talked to you about that—"

“You knew?” Connor is shocked and mostly angry. Jack should have—

“It wasn’t my shit to tell,” Jack states holding his hands up defensively. “I knew that Dylan – I mean even before he got his Tour card, he was saying he wasn’t sure if it was his dream anymore, and he really was just kind of pursuing it because he thought that’s what other people wanted him to do.”

Connor blows out a long breath. “Ever since I’ve known Dylan, he wanted to play on the PGA Tour, and now after years of struggling and giving up, he finally makes it with a full season exemption, and he wants to throw it away?”

Jack sighs, “Look, Connor, Dylan’s a big boy. He’s a fully formed, giant, gangly adult. He gets to make his own choices, and who are you to tell him what his dreams are and what they should be? Did it ever occur to you that he wouldn’t actually be giving anything up if he left the Tour to caddie for you?”

“I just don’t want to get in his way – not again,” Connor confesses truthfully.

“Babe, I—” Jack pauses locking eyes with Connor. “I’m not obviously going to tell you anything that Stromer told me in confidence, but like – he’s never, not once felt like you were in his way. Do I think at one time he yearned for independent success? Sure. But, if he’s saying this is what he wants now, then I think you need to believe him. You need to trust him. And, I know there’s no one you trust more than Dylan.”

“I just need to think about it,” Connor shrugs feeling the weight of the day settle on his shoulders.

“Fair,” Jack tells him kissing his temple. “You want to make out in the jacuzzi?”

Connor laughs, “Always.”

He thinks about it, and he’s pretty torn-up over the whole thing. Obviously, in a perfect world he’d want Dylan on his bag, but he doesn’t want his selfish desire for his best friend to be with him on the course to interrupt or even stop, frankly, Dylan’s own fledging golf career.

God, he thinks about how much fun he and Dylan used to have with Dylan on the bag, before everything went to shit last year, and of course he fucking wants that for the rest of his career. Steve’s great. He’s a nice guy. Pleasant out there, but he’s not Connor’s best friend. He doesn’t have the history with Connor and the knowledge of just what to say when Connor gets in over his head. There’s a comfort level that he has with Dylan that he doesn’t think, no matter how long he spends with another caddie, anyone will ever be able to match.

There’s also a part of him that’s afraid that if he and Dylan return to their previous professional relationship, it’ll affect their friendship. Connor just got him back in his life, and honestly, they aren’t really at the same level they were before. They’re still getting used to each other again. And maybe it’s a good thing, right – to get some space between them. Before, they worked together and spent most of their time in the offseason together. And Connor has no idea how it would look now, especially because Connor’s in a serious relationship for the first time since, well, ever if he’s being frank. His life is different. He’s different. He’s grown and matured, and he’s – he’s faced some of his demons to be honest, and he doesn’t – part of him worries that if his life starts looking how it used to, he’ll be right back in that headspace again, and he just – he can’t do it.

Dylan’s too important to him to risk fucking it up again over golf. He can’t go through that again. He won’t.

Jack, well Jack highkey judges him when he explains what he’s thinking. He gets that look on his face like Connor’s not seeing what he’s seeing. Like their mindsets are so far off, they’re not even in the same neighborhood. It’s beyond frustrating.

“Don’t look at me like that!” Connor finally exclaims because Jack’s not saying anything with his mouth, but his face says it all.

“I’m trying not to be judgmental and hear you out!” Jack retorts back shrugging.

“You are the most judgmental person I know—”

“Well, I’m trying to improve that, okay? It’s just—” he blows out a breath. “Maybe it’s not that serious? Like me caddying for you didn’t fuck up our relationship. It—”

“We didn’t have a relationship before you started caddying for me; it’s a totally different scenario. You can’t compare—"

Jack’s face is doing the thing again, but he doesn’t argue.

“What?” Connor says impatiently.

“It’s up to you. It’s totally up to you, Connor—” he says backing off. “I just think – Stromer being out there with you makes you happy. It makes him happy. It’s good for your career. You’re probably one of the best teams I’ve seen working together out there. Like – it might not be a big deal to a lot of the guys out on Tour, but for you and Dylan? It’s always been personal and professional, and it used to work didn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Connor grumbles. “It worked until it didn’t.”

“And like, I hear you. Your concerns are valid, but I feel like you’re making this decision from a place of fear. You’re planning for something to go wrong. When, I feel like you’ve really grown in the last year, and I don’t know Dylan as well, but I feel like he has too. And you both appreciate your friendship more after it blew up. You know that every relationship, no matter how solid it is and what history it has, takes work. So, I guess I just don’t understand why you wouldn’t want to risk it when you have the tools to make it work just because you’re afraid of something, anything going wrong.”

“It’s not that simple,” Connor states trying to resist the urge to roll his eyes. “I don’t want to risk, no matter how minute you think that risk is, that Dylan and I will end up not speaking for another year or hating each other. It’s like – when you find a friend that good you hold onto that shit, and you don’t exacerbate it—”

“That’s—” Jack pauses shaking his head. “That’s just not the kind of friendship you and Stromer have, is it? Aren’t you the kind of friends who needle at each other and push each other, but still stay loyal? Like if you think exacerbating an issue is going to blow everything up, then it’s probably not completely repaired, right?”

Connor hates when Jack’s right. “I’ll talk to him, okay? This weekend after the Player’s.”

Jack shrugs, “I just – I love the shit out of you, okay? And I’m just trying to help.”

That makes Connor smile, “I love you, too, asshole. And I know you’re trying to help. I appreciate it, really. I just—” he sighs. “I kinda don’t want to deal with this right now.”

“You’re going to need to deal with it, eventually.”

Connor sighs and before he can open his mouth Jack stands and peppers kisses all over the sides of Connor’s face until Connor’s cracking a smile.

“I know that you’ll figure it out in your own time. I’ll try to be quiet,” Jack says. “I’m a problem solver, but I know you can solve your own problems. I’ll back off, okay?”

At the end of the day, he knows Jack’s just trying to help – make Connor confront things before they turn on him. But he honestly has the Dylan thing under control. He does. He needs to take his time and decide and make the right decision for him, not for Jack. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t win the Player’s, but he finishes in the top-3, and he plays solid all weekend. He gets to hug Noah on the 18th green when he holes his final putt solidifying the biggest win of his career, so far. And, while it’s not the same as winning, and Connor would never lie to himself or anyone else for that matter that he didn’t want to win himself. He’s happy. Not only for Noah, and what it obviously means to him, but he’s playing well and he’s happy out on the course, and really, that’s a big win for Connor. It’s huge.

Connor’s really just enjoying golf right now, and it feels amazing.

Jack, of course, is bouncing off the walls, and probably more hyped than Connor’s seen him since the first invitational of their sophomore year when wiped the entire field by 5 strokes and shot the lowest round of his life.

“The fifth major!” he exclaims for at least the 30th time in the last 20 minutes since they’ve gotten back to their hotel room.

They make out in the shower, even though they’re both sweaty and exhausted, and Jack’s forearms are red and angry with a fresh burn; they just need to take the edge off.

“You’re so fucking hot,” Jack mumbles into Connor’s neck boxing him in roughly against the shower wall. Connor hopes he doesn’t move away any time soon because he doesn’t trust his own legs to hold him up at this point.

“Stop stroking my ego,” Connor complains trying to catch his breath.

Jack laughs gleefully and gets his hand around Connor, and Connor can’t help but buck his hips forward and whine audibly. “I’ll stroke something else.”

“Fuck,” Connor gasps slamming his head against the shower wall a little harder than strictly necessary. “I hate you.”

“No, you fucking don’t,” Jack laughs biting into Connor’s neck as he works Connor through it.

Connor would never in a million years thought he’d be capable of having sex in the shower laughing and sputtering around after losing an important golf tournament, especially one he played in the final pairing of. Even during years when his season was going well, he liked to lament after losses, usually shutting himself in until the next morning before he could remotely feel like a human again. Sometimes, he’d force himself to go out and celebrate if the guy who won was a particularly close friend or if it was a first win or something. But, as he became a veteran on the Tour, it happened less and less, as he began to take himself more and more seriously.

Connor knows that they’ll still be days when he can’t get out of his own head. When he’ll want to be alone for the night to reflect on his play. That’s okay. But, this – this is okay too. It’s okay to lose and be satisfied with your effort. It’s okay to lose and not spend the next 24 hours replaying it in your head. It’s okay to return to his regular life and not feel guilty, like he needs to punish himself every time he losses a golf tournament.

“You go ahead. I’m going to try to talk to Dylan, and then we’ll meet you guys?” Connor tells Jack squeezing his side lightly after they finally got out of the shower and put on clean clothes.

Jack retaliates by squeezing Connor’s ass through his jeans. “Is it gonna be a good talk?”

Connor shrugs suddenly feeling more apprehensive. “I dunno. I just – I want to hear a little bit more about what he wants, y’know? I know what I want. But, we’re a team.”

Jack nods and moves to run his fingers through Connor’s hair. It’s short on the sides now, but he kept more length on top than he usually does mostly because Jack had seemed to love the longer hair. “You two will work it out. I have no doubts.”

That, Connor fully agrees with. It took him a while to get there. But Jack was right. Connor and Dylan had been through a lot over the last year that made their friendship feel fragile. But it really wasn’t. Apologizing and coming to terms with the things they both fucked up, mostly Connor, if he’s being honest, has only made them stronger and more understanding of each other. They can survive anything. Connor knows they can. He just needed to be reminded. Otters for life and all that.

Stromer’s got a pillow crease line down the entire left side of his face when he answer’s his hotel room door.

Connor just laughs. The WF guys used to joke that Dylan was nocturnal, always looking like he needed to nap for 10,000 years. But, when he finally did pass out, he could sleep undisturbed for upwards of 15, 16 hours. Connor had seen it numerous times, especially after a long week of exams.

“You’re an asshole,” Dylan mumbles sleepily as he steps back to let Connor in.

“Long week there, bud?”

He shrugs suddenly looking slightly uncomfortable. “I’ve just had stuff on my mind.”

“Yeah,” Connor says sitting on Dylan’s bed and sprawling out like he used to in college. “Are you cool to talk now? Or – I mean I can come back or next week or whatever.”

Dylan shrugs, yawns, and eventually sprawls next to Connor on the bed. “Hit me with the word vomit, Davo.”

Connor rolls his eyes, but Dylan knows his process, and he’s right. He always has to talk himself through and into every decision.

“I guess—” he starts sitting up a little to make eye contact because it’s an important conversation. “I want to understand where you’re coming for a bit more? Because – here’s my trepidation: the Tour is new. It can be lonely out there week after week. I know it can. But this is what you’ve always wanted. I don’t want you to give that up because it’s easier to be on my bag. Because it makes you less uncomfortable.”

Dylan doesn’t say anything for a long moment and for a heart-stopping minute, Connor thinks that maybe Dylan took what he said the wrong way and— “You know in the first episode of Friends, and Rachel’s on the phone with her dad explaining why she ran away from her wedding?”

Connor doesn’t know where he’s going with this, but Dylan knows Connor’s undying love for Friends, so he just nods.

“And like – she tells her dad, y’know ‘my entire life everyone’s been telling me, you’re a shoe, you’re a shoe, you’re a shoe. But what if I don’t want to be a shoe? What if I want to be a purse? Or a hat?’ Like my entire life, growing up as a country club kid, everyone always told me to hold onto golf, that it would take me places. That all that talent and the long hits and everything – it was my destiny. And, that’s great for them. And golf did take me to amazing places. But I realized that just because other people think I need to be one thing, doesn’t mean I need to be,” he sighs. “I’m happy when I’m out there playing. I really am. But it doesn’t even come close to how happy I am when I’m out there with you and we’re a team, and I’m caddying. I love caddying, and I love that I get to be there with my best friend through it all, y’know? Support you. Support your game and help you win. That’s what I want. Just because I’m good enough to play on Tour doesn’t mean I need to.”

Connor blows out a breath because that’s a lot to unpack. “I just don’t want you to regret it. Like you can play the whole season and then decide.”

“If that’s what you want. But I know I’m not going to change my mind,” Dylan states firmly raising his eyebrows at Connor in almost a challenge.

“I—” Connor bites his lip. “I want you on my bag, of course I do. No one – not even Jack out there with me to compares with you and me. But, it’s like – I’m scared that we’ll fall back into old habits, and like I feel – protective, I guess, of our friendship. Because you’re such an important person in my life, you have to know that Dylan, and you’re too important to fuck up over golf.”

“Did you ever think that maybe we’re capable of not fucking it up?” Dylan asks turning to give Connor a measured look. “Like – obviously neither of us is perfect. And any friendship or relationship or whatever, at least ones that have meaning, have ups and downs. But I mean I trust that we can come back from anything. I mean are we going to fight about golf again? Probably. Are we going to let it come between us? I’d hope not. And, I think we can hold ourselves to that.”

“Dylan,” Connor says seriously because this is important. “Just – take a few weeks. I want you to be sure.”

Dylan shrugs, “If that’s what you want. But, really Connor, I’m not changing my mind.”

It’s like déjà vu. Standing there at the first tee at Augusta. Crosby’s talking to Mario, his black-and-gold on like every Sunday. He looks relaxed. Ready for the round, and Connor’s quietly trying not to freak out.

“Eichs and Hanny told me that they heard Reebok has to make-to-order his shorts to fit his ass. I’m not sure if they’re being legit, but I mean pretty impressive for a golfer,” Dylan shrugs following Connor’s gaze over to them.

“Jack and Noah are so full of shit,” Connor bitches but actually doesn’t doubt them on this one. Crosby’s glutes were legendary in the golf world. When he was coming up, Tiger was just starting to make working out and fitness a thing in pro golf. Before, it wasn’t uncommon for the gym to be empty on Tour. Now? Every guy has some type of regiment. Crosby with his lower body-dominant swing just solidified that all the guys who wanted to play golf needed to squat and squat heavy and squat often.

“You’d think the shine would have worn off, y’know,” Dylan comments laughing. “Dude already kicked your ass into yesterday last year. Hashtag ‘collapseofMcJesus.’”

Connor snorts rolling his shoulders back looking away from Crosby. “Doesn’t mean it’s not ridiculously cool to play with him.”

Dylan shrugs, “He’s just a golfer. Like you, like most of our friends. Like your idiot boyfriend.”

That he agrees with completely. Jack made the cut this weekend and was fully enjoying himself at his first major of the year. He and Noah somehow managed to get themselves in the same group on Thursday and had the entire crowd chanting about Duke. It was ridiculous. Connor could hear it across the course. “No one could accuse Jack of being scholarly and understated,” Connor laughs.

“He’s a menace to golf as we know it,” Dylan states but his tone is light. Connor knows he thinks Jack’s antics are endearing. He’s thought so since their first year of college. “But, y’know, Sid’s literally just another golf bro. He and Malkin do shots every time one of them wins. I’ve seen it.”

Connor chuckles, “That’s because Malkin bullied him into it the first time, and now he’s too superstitious not to do it.”

“See, just a normal, neurotic golf bro.”

“On the tee from Newmarket, Ontario, Canada, Connor McDavid!”

“Relax,” Dylan says pulling Ollie off Connor’s driver and handing it to him. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

That makes Connor laugh, and totally drains all the tension in his shoulders. Dylan’s got him there.

He stripes it down the fairway and carries the bunker on the right-side of the fairway where he ended up yesterday.

“Good ball,” Dylan says holding his fist out for a fist bump putting Ollie back on and safely securing Connor’s driver into his bag. “It’s a beautiful day to fuck some shit up,” Dylan laughs.

“Let’s fucking do this, Stromer,” he replies.

He’s dialed-in throughout the round, and before he can even fathom what’s happening, he’s got a two-shot lead over Crosby and the rest of the field as they make their way to 12.

Dylan laughs shoving Connor has they walk toward the tee box.

“What?” Connor says resisting the urge to put him in a headlock because there’s a camera following them, and his grandma probably wouldn’t approve.

“It’s just—” Dylan says all but slapping himself on the forehead. “This is clearly the hardest hole on the course on Sunday. The Heartbreak Hill. The Dream Crusher. And, you fucking birdied it last year in the final round like it was nothing, and then snuffed it on 13. Like who does that?”

“Fuck you, Stromer,” he laughs shoving him back until he stumbles on the cart path.

“I’m just saying,” Dylan retorts rolling his eyes. “It’s ironic, is all.”

Connor just smiles back pinches his shoulder. It is ironic, and while maybe a few months ago he wouldn’t have been able to laugh at it, or maybe he would have but only in a self-deprecating, “I suck, haha” kinda way, he’s fine with it now. If anything, it’s just further solidifying is that he’s put his downward spiral behind himself, and he’s not letting it fuck with his head and his game anymore.

Even if he pulls a full Jordan Speith, goes straight into the drink here and quadruples the hole, he knows that it’s just one hole. It’s just one round of golf. He can always come back. Hit a better shot. Play a better round. And, yeah if it happens, he’ll feel like shit in the moment. But it won’t have the power to ruin his mood for the rest of the round. He’s playing at the Masters. In the final pairing. With Sidney Fucking Crosby. For the second time. Life’s good. Life’s great. He’s got Dylan here, talking up his usual storm, making sure Connor’s having fun. It’s really better than anything he could have asked for.

Club selection here is everything, especially with the Sunday pin location. It’s the swirly wind that Golden Bell’s known for, and you can’t overcook it or you’ll go deep into the back bunkers, but if you go for the pin and not the meat of the green, you don’t have much room to spin the ball without it falling into the hazard.

The thing about 12 on Sunday is that you can certainly lose the tournament on this hole. You hit that ridge, you’re in the hazard, and suddenly you’re already hitting three and need to make a difficult up and down for bogey. That two-shot lead that Connor’s sitting on gone. So, he really just needs to focus on playing smart. He doesn’t need to be a hero. He doesn’t need to go for the flag. He needs to make sure it stays in play and gives himself an opportunity for birdie. He just needs to keep his head on and hit a good shot. It doesn’t need to be great. It doesn’t need to be perfect. He just has to keep himself in it.

He pures his 8 iron and hits the green right in the center and it rolls down leaving him about a 18-20-footer for birdie. He hit a better shot last year, but again, he’s not losing the Championship here.

Dylan whistles cleaning Connor’s club before sticking it back in his bag. “That’ll be good.”

Crosby hits a beauty that he gets to spin to about 10-feet, and he and Mario have their heads together mumbling about a bet. Connor smiles, maybe Crosby is just a golf bro. He and Malkin are known for wagering major cash on their practice rounds, but seeing Sid only ever dialed in on the course, with his “don’t fuck with me” aura, Connor kind of assumed it was just the media trying to humanize him a little more. Maybe he was too harsh. Too judgmental.

“Nice ball, Sid,” Connor says sliding in next to him holding out his fist for him to bump.

“Thanks, man,” he replies smiling, and Connor is almost transported back to his childhood bedroom where he used to fall asleep looking at Sid’s face all night. “Thought I caught it a bit heavy but happy it worked out.”

It’s a tough putt with a wicked break, one of those that he wants to be able to give a chance to, but at the same time if he knocks it passed the hole or doesn’t hit it and leaves himself a long second putt, it’s not a guaranteed par. He needs to not think about Crosby’s birdie putt, and he needs to take a breath and think about what the right move is. He’s up two, and he just needs to protect until he can take advantage of the next par 5 to make a move.

He needs to be patient and take advantage of what the course is giving him. He doesn’t have to do anything crazy. He just needs to play his game.

He gives it a chance and rolls it well within tap in distance for par. He taps it in and gets out of Sid’s way, letting out a sigh of relief.

“Good play,” Dylan says nudging him as they watch Crosby and Mario work on reading Sid’s putt. “That’s what we needed to do.”

Sid holes his difficult birdie putt and the crowd is on its feet, and Connor just kind of lets himself take it in for the first time this round – the beauty of Sunday at Augusta playing in the final pairing. He takes a deep breath and tells himself that no matter what happens, he’s going to remember this moment right here: the smell of the grass, the roar of the crowd, Sid’s cheeky, almost sheepish smile at Mario as he tips his hat, and Dylan laughing and patting him on the back talking nonsense in Connor’s ear.

Staring down the 13th fairway from the tee box doesn’t really give Connor any single feeling – it’s more like a jumbled mess of fear, pain, anxiety, and a dose of embarrassment for good measure. He’s played this hole 5, 6 times since last year’s collapse, but it’s not the same as standing here on Sunday knowing what this hole did to his life.

“So, like I can distract the cameras so you can sneak off and scream or whatever you need to do to get it out of your system?” Dylan deadpans as they settle on the tee box waiting for Sid to set up and hit.

Connor shakes his head and attempts to laugh but it comes out strained and a little whiny.

“If you think about it, this hole changed your life for the better in a lot of ways,” Dylan continues softly in Connor’s ear. “It sucked, but it forced you to really look at your life, and somehow you kinda met Jack because of it—”

“I already knew Jack—” Connor mumbles.

“Okay, sure,” Dylan smiles cheekily at him clapping him on the back. “You re-met Jack, whatever. Started fucking each other,” He pauses when Connor levels him with a look. “Fine, _fell in love_ , you dickbag. I’m just saying, this hole derailed you but never broke you. So, it’s kinda like weird déjà vu that you probably had nightmares about, but it’s just another hole of golf. It’s not more powerful. It’s all in your head.”

Sid rips his drive with a sturdy little draw into the fairway. He’s definitely looking to reach in two and make an eagle. Connor takes a deep breath. He’s in the driver’s seat. He has to remember that.

Dylan looks at him titling his head to the side. “Y’know, maybe I would say three wood, but you’re hitting the driver really well, and I think it’s time to do what you do best. You’re already up, and you need to stay up.”

Connor agrees. Maybe a conservative play wouldn’t be bad, necessarily. But he didn’t come this far to play someone else’s game. He’s going to do him, and he’s going to press.

He’s got a one-shot lead. He’s got his best friend on his bag. He’s got his Otters for Life hat on from Nike, and he’s fucking going for broke. This is his tournament to win; he can’t get scared now.

He hits a beauty, absolutely crushes his driver hitting the middle of the fairway in the perfect spot to go for the green in two.

Dylan laughs as they walk down the fairway taking Connor’s driver and putting Ollie back on. “You out drove Sid,” he says as soon as Sid and Mario are out of ear shot. “14-year-old you would be shitting yourself.”

Connor laughs clapping him on the back. “I’m shitting myself right now. Do you think he’ll autograph the ball for me?”

That startles another laugh out of Stromer. “Holy shit, dude; Sid will kill you. Or well – Malkin will if you even get close to him with that idea.”

Connor just shrugs smiling at him cheekily.

Sid has a good look at the pin as well, and from his club selection he decides to go for it knowing that Connor will have an even better look. He has to be thinking that knocking it in close and giving himself a good look for eagle will put more pressure on Connor to hit a good shot, and he’s gotta be thinking about the collapse last year here, and how he can probably get one up on Connor by being so solid, it’s intimidating enough to insight a downward spiral.

He hits a good shot in there but doesn’t get the best roll down and leaves himself about a 15-footer for eagle.

Dylan raises his eyebrows as to say this is the time to put up or shut up. Connor knows he shouldn’t put pressure on himself to hit a good shot. It’s one golf shot. Just one. And they’ll be thousands more, for sure. But, at the same time, he knows that this is a big shot for his peace of mind, that he’s more than just what happened at the Masters last year. And intellectually, of course, he already knows that. He’s fought and clawed and used therapy to discover that he’s more than what happens to him and what he does on the golf course. And still, he kind of wants it to manifest out here. So, he can really show himself how far he’s come.

“I can hear you thinking,” Dylan comments knocking him back into reality. “Less thinking more golfing.”

Connor rolls his eyes, “Thanks Stromer, helpful.”

“Ah, yes, that’s me. Your trusty best friend and caddie. Always with the great advice,” he lowers his voice eyeing the camera that’s been following them. “Y’know, if this were one of those sports ‘inspired by real events’ movies, I’d probably give an amazing inspirational speech about picking yourself up, dusting yourself off, and sticking it to everyone who doubted you. But, like that’s lame, and also, I have a marine biology degree from WF, so no one’s paying me to give a speech or say something meaningful any time soon, I don’t think. But, like fuck everything inspirational and do this for you, Davo. C’mon.”

He takes a deep breath taking the club from Dylan’s out-stretched hand. It’s just golf, Connor. He tells himself wearily. Do it for you. The only expectations that you have to live with are your own. You got it.

He goes for the flag because he’s truly not fucking around, and his hybrid has been solid all weekend long.

He reaches back to fist bump Dylan before he lines up for his shot because he can, and he likes knowing Dylan’s there.

“Let’s fucking go,” Dylan supplies in turn.

He pures it, and the ball flight is right on.

“Hold on,” Dylan says from behind him. “This looks really fucking good, Davo.”

It hits the green with an audible thunk, and maybe it’s just in Connor’s head, but he doesn’t think he’s ever heard the gallery louder. The crowd’s on its feet, and Connor’s at the Masters at 13 with a 10-foot putt for eagle on Sunday. He’d ask Dylan to slap him to make sure he was awake, but he knows Stromer would take him way too literally.

“Alright, we’re fucking dancing, Davo,” Stromer says taking the club from Connor and slapping him on the shoulder. “We’re dancing.”

Connor just smiles at him letting himself continue to soak it in as they come into view of the gallery. He knows no matter what happens from here on out, he did his best, and he’ll never forget the experience. This will be a moment that he’ll be talking about for the rest of his life, so he knows he needs to make it a good one.

He takes another deep breath watching Sid and Mario read his putt. It’s a tough one, but Connor doesn’t doubt that Sid has the confidence to give it the best chance and be aggressive here to put pressure on Connor to make his putt. Sid’s also won here more than anyone else, literally, in history. He probably knows this green as well as Connor knows the greens at his home course in Newmarket.

Sid puts a great stroke on it. It’s the kind of putt that as a kid, Connor would watch over and over again in slow-motion trying to understand every tiny, minute detail of. He’d go out to the practice green and try to capture it hitting 1000s of putts over and over just trying to seize some of that magic.

Needless to say, he drains it. Sid’s not known for celebrating on the course, even at 18 when he wins a tournament. But he fist pumps five feet before the ball even reaches the cup, knowing he made it and then turns to high-five Mario who starts to get the crowd going. It’s right in this moment, Connor decides that, maybe, Sid not only respects his game, but he finds Connor even a little intimidating; Connor resolves then that Sid thinks that Connor can win this, and he has to do everything to try to shift the momentum over to himself to keep him in the game. It’s jarring to say the least.

Sidney Crosby thinks he’s a threat.

He and Dylan get to work reading his putt. It’s a pretty simple putt with a downhill break to the left. Connor’s hit this putt 100s of times before.

“Alright, you got it,” Dylan says backing away so Connor can line-up the putt. “Nice and smooth, here; don’t rush it.”

He takes a deep breath steadying himself over the ball. He remembers all the putting competitions they’d have at the end of practices at WF in the summers. Coach would have everyone yell as each person putt from various locations, getting further and further away from the cup as they made them. Once you missed, you were eliminated and the winner usually got his own room on an upcoming trip or to pick the music on the bus or something, small stuff. But all Division I athletes are competitive almost to a fault, and you would have thought there was much more on the line. Coach had to create pressure situations, and even though they could never compare to the real thing, he’s lucky to have that experience to draw on in addition to all the putts at Regionals, NCAAs, and other PGA tour events.

He knows it’s going in as soon as he hits it. He just knows.

“Let’s go!” Dylan all put yells revving up the crowd like Mario had done minutes before reaching over to Connor to do their handshake that they haven’t done on the course in years, probably since they were like 19, 20. “That’s what I’m talking about, Davo.”

Connor lets out a breath of relief as he and Dylan turn to walk to the next hole. He’s relieved, for one. And, he’s so fucking happy. This is one of those moments, when his golf career is long since over, that he’s going to look back on and think “damn, I can’t believe that actually happened.” It feels like a dream.

Sid keeps it close the rest of the round, but Connor counters his every move. Birdie-par-birdie-birdie. They’re both playing out of their minds, and Connor’s never really played better. He feels like he’s leveled-up or something, or like he’s Frieza in Dragonball Z when he fucking finally reaches his final form. He thought he knew how to compete. He’d been competing since he was old enough to hold a club in his hand – his club’s junior championships when he was like 6 to NCAAs in college to the PGA tour. But, that was all child’s play compared to what it feels like standing on the 18th tee at Augusta on Sunday with a one shot lead feeling – no, knowing – that he can win.

“We’re going to do it,” he tells Dylan has Dylan hands him his driver. “We got this, Stromer.”

Dylan laughs but his face is serious, “I believe, man. I’ve always believed, Davo.”

The _when no one else did. When everyone counted you out_ remains unsaid. But Connor can hear him loud and clear.

Most of the round felt like a dream, but the 18th hole feels like it is firmly cemented into reality. He started the day thinking about competing – staying in his lane and just playing golf. Now? He’s thinking about taking this thing home. He’s thinking about winning. He’s thinking about etching his name onto that trophy and into history.

He used to dream about this moment: standing at the 18th tee at Augusta with a one-shot lead on Sunday. He dreamt about it, first at 9 or 10 after watching Tiger and then Sid get it done on Sunday and get that green jacket. And then, at 16 or 17, winning junior tournaments around Toronto and the rest of Canada and the Northern U.S. and imagining what it would feel like to be there at Augusta winning it all. Then, at 20 or 21, winning back-to-back NCAA championships, the college golf world calling naming him one of the clutchest players of all time, and feeling and hoping that one-day that would really be true. And then, at 22 or 23, winning PGA Tour events, topping the money list his second year on Tour, and closing his eyes at night and picturing how it would feel to slip that jacket on in front of his friends and family, the crowd cheering and the bright Georgia sun right in his eyes.

But all those dreams? Were just that – figments of his imagination. Even when he was winning, even when he was telling his agents and his friends that he wanted to win a major, even last year when he had the chance, it never felt more than a dream. It felt only like something his mind had imagined and hoped and wished for and not the thing he worked endlessly for. But now? So much has happened.

He’s been through a lot with his game.

He’s been through a lot with his mental health.

He’s been through a lot with Dylan, learning to value friendship over winning, and knowing that even though golf is a business –and frankly, he’s a business – his golf is a business, he’s also a human. He needs to give himself a break. He needs to rely on other people. And he needs to understand that it’s just golf, and it doesn’t dictate how he feels about himself and those around him.

And, he’s been through a lot with Jack, watching him put himself back together – watching him overcome something that easily could have broken anyone. But he didn’t let it. He came out the other side a better person. A nicer person. A more well-rounded person. A happier person. And, Connor’s taken a lot from that. He’s learned a lot about what things are truly important and what things are just distractions.

And, so now, standing at the 18th tee at Augusta with a chance to win the Masters on Sunday, doesn’t feel like a dream. It feels real. It feels quantifiable. He can feel it. He can taste it. He can breathe it. And, he’s going to go after it with everything he has. Win or lose, this is his reality. And he’s going to take it by the balls.

He lets it fly off the tee and stripes it down the fairway at 18 knowing that he wants a good look at the pin with the small green. He has to keep it down and just avoid trouble.

“Okay. Okay,” Dylan says for a lack of anything else as he takes Connor’s driver and they back off to watch Sid tee off.

Sid hits a bomb, an absolute bomb that’s going to be perfect on the dogleg and get him a great look at the green.

“Damn,” Dylan comments as they walk down the fairway after Sid and Mario who look serious. “He’s never going to let up, is he?”

Connor laughs, “He’s Sidney Crosby.”

Connor’s out, so he hits first. It’s a good position to be in being one-up. He’s gotta hit a good shot, avoid the bunkers, and just get on to put the pressure on Sid to do something.

“Alright, Davo. Relax. You got this,” Dylan utters handing him his iron. “Easy does it.”

He hits it a little fat and holds his breath hoping he clears the front bunker and/or doesn’t bounce into the bunker on the hard-right.

“Whoa now,” Dylan says from beside him as they watch the ball hit the front of the green. “C’mon.”

It rolls a little but it’s still on the first tier of the green. It’s going to be a difficult putt and definitely not a guaranteed two-putt. It wasn’t exactly what he wanted to do, but he knows he’ still got this. “Let’s go to work,” he tells Dylan as they walk towards the green and pause to watch Sid hit.

Sid hits a beauty into the green. Connor’s almost in awe. It spins back a little, but it’s pin high for about 20-feet for birdie.

“Pick that jaw up off the ground,” Dylan shakes his head clapping Connor on the shoulder, “and let’s get to work.”

He tries to stay in his bubble as they approach the green and the gallery erupts. He knows his parents are there. And his grandparents. And his brother and sister-in-law. And probably Dylan’s parents. And maybe even his brothers; Connor doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to see them. He doesn’t want to get more nervous. He doesn’t want to break his calm. But, he does want to see Jack. He needs to see Jack, and he doesn’t really know why. But he needs to.

So, he looks up and finds Jack’s eyes. He’s talking to Noah with Matt on his other side. He’s got a dim sunburn from his round earlier in the afternoon, and he’s clearly changed his shirt because it’s not soaked through. He’s wearing an Otters cap. So is Noah, actually. And Matt, and Connor doesn’t glance around anymore, but he figures that maybe a lot of the guys are. Connor doesn’t know what to make of it and doesn’t want to get choked up. But damn it feels good to know so many people want this for him. Believe in him.

Jack tips his hat at Connor when he meets his eyes. “C’mon,” he mouths to him. “Finish him here.”

Connor nods to him and looks away back to Dylan, who set his bag down and is surveying the putt. He whistles, “It’s a doozy, but it’s not un-doable.”

He’s out – he’s really out, actually with a 60-footer for birdie, so he has the first opportunity to strike. If he holes out, somehow, someway, he’ll win the championship. The highest score in the clubhouse is four shots back from Connor and three from Sid. So, one of them is walking away with a green jacket when it’s all said and done.

He takes a deep breath, lines up his putt, and visualizes it hitting the bottom of the cup. He sees, hears it, and feels himself hitting the putt of his life.

It’s a good putt, getting over that first tier easily and continues to roll out towards the cup, but it doesn’t go in. Connor sighs but knows he’s still in this. Even if Sid holes his 20-footer, Connor can make his 6-footer, and they’ll just go to a playoff that Connor will absolutely smash.

Sid’s putt is mostly straight with the tiniest break. He and Mario discuss it for what feels like Connor’s entire adult life before Sid lines up, steadies himself over the ball, and _clink—_ It’s the right line, but he burns the edge. Holy shit.

“C’mon,” Sid murmurs as he holes out for par.

“Alright,” Dylan says squeezing his shoulder a little too hard. “This is your time. Let’s fucking do it, Davo. He opened the door. Gotta crawl right in.”

His hands are shaking when he’s over the ball. It’s the longest fucking six-footer of his life. He backs off for a minute, because he knows if he hits it when he’s not ready and misses, he’ll replay it for the rest of his life.

He resteadies himself over the ball and tries to release the tension in his shoulders. He visualizes the ball hitting the bottom of the cup, and _clink_ — It goes in. It goes in.

He doesn’t even reach for the ball before Dylan’s on him and they’re screaming at each other nonsensically.

“We fucking did! We did it!” Connor yells as they embrace.

Dylan doesn’t say anything the words seemingly lost in his throat, so he just screams back in Connor’s ear. Connor knows what he means anyway.

The rest is an out-of-body experience. Suddenly his parents and grandparents are there with Cam and Connor’s hugging them, and his mom and his grandma are crying. And then his dad's crying, and it feels like it’s not even real. He knows the CBS correspondent will break up the party soon, but he doesn’t care. He just holds his grandma close and lets everything settle in his chest. He won the Masters. He fucking won the Masters.

When he finally lets her go, Jack’s at Cam’s shoulder bright red with tears streaming down his face. He doesn’t move towards Connor at first but finally crushes him in a hug when Cam nudges him along. “Fucking right, Davo,” he sniffles into Connor’s ear. “I’m so proud of you, babe.”

“I love you,” Connor confesses back lowly in his ear because he needs to say it. “I love you so much.”

Jack laughs pulling back to look Connor in the eye and wipe at his face, “I love you, too.”

No round is perfect. No tournament is perfect. No moment is absolutely, 100% perfect. But, this? This, Connor knows is as close as it gets. He breathes Jack in and knows that no matter what, no matter what happens tomorrow, next week, or 10 years from now, today is a day he’ll remember forever. Today is a day that he’ll forever share with Dylan and his family and Jack. And no one, not even golf, can take that from him, ever.

He’ll always be a Masters champion.

Sid's there all of a sudden shaking his hand and pulling him into a short hug. "You had to prove me right, didn't you?" he laughs into Connor's shoulder.

Connor laughs back slapping him on the back stepping away and beaming at him. "The next one did have a nice ring to it, eh?"

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! Would love to hear any feedback below. I always try to reply!
> 
> I think at its core, this is more than a fic about a blossoming relationship and two people finding each other and supporting one another. It's a fic that's about friendship. And, I hope that comes across!
> 
> True story: I played D1 softball in college and my coach really did make us come up with a theme every single year and each one was more awful and cliche than the next. I would have died to be Otters for life, tbh. 
> 
> Also, check out this [video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D3cgIkkddGM/) from Tiger's presser at the Masters last year for the inspo of the press conference at the Korn Ferry Tour championship. It's a mood.
> 
> And Daphne's Headcovers (the company that makes Tiger's famous Frank does make an [otter](https://www.daphnesheadcovers.com/product/otter/) headcover! Totally real!
> 
> Hope ya'll enjoyed!


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